A balanced diet is a burger in both hands.

Ladies and Gentletablets, I recently decided to embark on a trail of self-betterment.  I've changed a good many things, including exercising consistently, attempting to eat somewhat healthier, and, here's the big one, (mostly) not drinking.  I've learned a good bit from the past month, the most prominent fact being that when you don't drink whatsoever, all of those other things just kind of happen.  Long dead are the days when you are intoxicated at 3:12am swearing on your first pet's grave that you've never wanted anything in this world more than you want a Big Mac and 20 chicken nuggets.  Well, at least the days when I had to be drunk to say that anyway, but speaking of that let's talk about the wondrous monstrosity that is good ol' Mickey D's and my most recent excursion to said eatery.

After a particularly late night at work a few weeks ago I was extremely hungry, and being that it was after 3am and everything respectable was closed, my stomach sentenced me to 13 minutes hard time in the McDonald's drive thru.  This particular establishment is located on the lovely Colfax Avenue in Denver.  For those of you that haven't graced Denver with your presence, this particular thoroughfare is known as "the longest, wickedest street in America."  Whether you want McDonald's or crack, Voodoo Donuts or hookers, this street has everything you could possibly need to shorten your life substantially.  So, like a responsible adult, I shunned all reasonable thought and dove headfirst into a hopefully heroine-free double quarter pounder.  

Now I'm not sure if you've ever been to a McDonald's at 3am in a seedy area, hopefully you haven't, but let me say that it is an absolute gold mine for people watching.  In a sentence, it's like if Paula Deen's estranged cousin hosted Burning Man at a homeless shelter.  And they had pretty tasty fries.  The encounter begins with driving up to the menu where you attempt to order through what is essentially your fourth grade walkie-talkie taped to a stick.  I was greeted by what seemed to be a furiously malfunctioning robot, of which I understand absolutely nothing.  I gave my order, which I believe was supposed to show up on the confirmation screen, but instead appeared to be a vividly colored painting done by Picasso and Salvador Dali's love child.  The rage-cyborg went on to repeat my order slightly faster than an auctioneer late for his daughter’s recital, so I politely asked him to repeat it a bit slower which did precisely nothing to slow him down, and I proceeded to the second window hoping for the best.

Side note:  What the hell is the purpose of the first window?  Ever since I can remember, they've been as neglected as the 9 button on the microwave.  Every time it’s "Please pull around to the second window."  Are they for decoration?  Have they been quarantined?  WHAT AREN'T YOU TELLING US???

Moving on.  I arrived at the aforementioned second window and was given the first look at a the man who, despite not being a poorly constructed robot, I could only assume consistently had a BAC higher than his GPA and a credit score less than his weight.  Harsh?  Maybe.  True?  Almost assuredly.  We'll call him Groot because he had about as much emotion as a tree, with a slightly smaller vocabulary.  He was an angry elf, if you haven't gotten that yet.  Anyway, he was the only worker there, save for an associate sitting far in the back glaring through the window at me, who, in the words of PG Wodehouse, "looked like they'd been poured into their clothes and forgot to say when."  After a brief and enlightening exchange with Groot, he left to gather my victuals leaving me to myself for the moment.  I spent that time absentmindedly looking around the kitchen, whose inside was best described as "there appears to have been a struggle."  Groot eventually returned with my delicacies, and sent me on my way with a merry "ThunksaMcDldsgdn."  Nothing like some solid human interaction to end your night.  ThunksaMcDldsgdn to you too, Groot.

Fact of the Day:  In 2006, a man tried to sell New Zealand.

Shout out Valerie Alvarado. 

Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one.

Well, it's been a while (again), and I figured it was about time to write a new blog because the note on my phone with all my random thoughts has become roughly about the length of the second Lord of the Rings novel.

A long, long time ago, on a Wi-Fi network far, far away, I wrote one of my first posts which for a brief second mentioned some of the pun-based businesses I wanted to open.   The other day I came up with an addition to that list:  It's called Deja Food, and the restaurant specials repeat randomly at varying lengths of time.

I've also been pondering a lengthy list of things recently.  Some are deep, some are completely ridiculous.  A few include:

-I wonder how many places I've already been for the last time?

-What is a Casbah, and how do I rock it?

-Are there any times on the clock that I haven't seen?

-What was the worst thing ever done for a Klondike Bar?

Let's do some venting.  As many of you may know, I work in a bar.  I will refrain from using the real name of the bar for reasons involving the safety of my employment, but suffice it to say that it is a very popular bar in a public area, which assures that we entertain guests of all different varieties.  Now stereotypes are usually negative, but I can attest that for the most part they exist for a reason, and working in a bar you get very accustomed to judging people as soon as they walk in the door solely based on your overwhelming past experiences.  Don't get me wrong, it is possible, and very refreshing, for someone to completely defy the stereotype, it just isn't all that common.  Here are a few I have become familiar with, along with the nicknames I have given them:  (Apologies in advance for the inevitable offense this will cause.)

The Suit:  The Suit is a businessman.  The Suit is a successful businessman doing very well for himself, he is very proud of it, and he will let you know.  Sometimes this is via taking care of the whole check in a grandiose and flamboyant manner, or sometimes he will just up and tell you that he has, and this is a direct quote, "a seven digit salary and a Pringles can for a d!#k."  That should pretty much tell you everything you need to know about The Suit.  Forecast:  Partly douchey with heavy narcissism in the late evening.

The Chad:  Chad is the nickname I have given to the stereotypical "bro".  Chads usually travel in packs, and seen in anything from neon tank tops to hats that say "Cocaine & Caviar", Chad is usually a process to deal with.  It's a safe bet to say Chad is drinking vodka Red Bull, whiskey ginger, or vodka soda with extra lemons.  Not all of them are fighters, but, well, yes they are.  Chad will talk loudly about wanting to meet chicks, will approach several with questionable tactics, and is most likely to reference himself in the third person at least once.  Chad is the guy that will aggressively flag down a bartender with violent waves and/or yelling, and upon being greeted will realize no one in the group knows what they want and frantically yell at everyone for 3-6 minutes while not letting the bartender leave to help anyone else.  Also, it will be all split checks and at least one person will leave their card.  Forecast:  High probability of high fives.

The Hipster:  Nowadays hipsters are everywhere, almost mainstream even (GASP).  To combat this, the Hipster has essentially evolved into the Hipster 2.0 (or -1.0, I don't know how their scale works).  This is the guest that, whether through actual knowledge or subtle googling before entering the bar, is sure to order at least one spirits/concoction that no reasonable bar outside of the three-password basement of the underground bar in SoHo would have on National Speakeasy Day.  On top of that is the near certain smirk of disapproval that accompanies the "Sorry we don't carry Angel tear-infused Sake aged in 14th century brandy barrels."  After serving them, you can usually walk by the Hipster and overhear a literal jet stream of bullshit spewing from their mouth about their otherworldly experiences with alcohol at other bars in far away lands.  Often a bad tipper, the Hipster is truly exhausting.  I'd say I was worried about losing their business, but who needs those pretentious fucks with their gluten free music and kale cardigans anyway.  Forecast:  Way too cool.

The Faux Wino:  The Faux Wino is an ever-present guest in most bars.  It is often someone who actually knows their shit, or at least some of it, and is usually dissatisfied with whatever your wine selection may be.  They are quick to admit your recommendation is "fine", but even quicker to bring up a wine they have at home or had at another establishment that is far superior.  We have 30 draft beers and a truly impressive selection of liquor and liqueurs.  If you want to get high school hammered on different types of wine, go to an Olive Garden.  At least there you can gorge on all-you-can-eat garlicky hotdog buns.  Forecast: Purple lips and stories of traveling abroad.

The Becky:  In short, Becky is the female equivalent of Chad.  Becky is the girl at the bar that will make sure the bartenders knows that she is out with all of her absolute besties for a girls night, they want some kind of shot ("just make us something we'll like"), and that her friend's should be free because it's her MOTHAFUCKIN BIRTHDAAAAAAAAY!!!! [Insert Woo’s here.]  High heels will come off, exes will be called.  Forecast:  100% chance of Becky getting lost.

Now for every one of these people there are just as many that are nice, entertaining, good tipping, enjoyable human beings, but just like you never really pay attention to the referee until something bad happens, the shitty people usually stick in your memory a little more vividly, and not in a good way.  Regardless, the job is still fun and life is all about perspective.  Remember, the sinking of the Titanic was a miracle to the lobsters in the ship's kitchen.

Fact of the day:  A pregnant goldfish is called a twit.

Shout out to Nate Patrick.

If you think a minute goes by fast, you've never been on a treadmill.

As most of you know from my last blog, I ran a marathon two weeks ago and promised I'd write a post-race blog to let you in on the state of complete misery to which I subjected myself.  Well, I've finally recovered feeling in my lower body, made my way to my computer, and I'm here to recount the wondrously painful ordeal for all of you.

I don't know how many of you are runners (hopefully none), but I can say pretty confidently that nothing you have willingly done is as mindlessly painful as running 26.2 miles.  I trained hilariously little, and two days before the race I went on a light five mile run just to get a feel for how running in Phoenix compared to Denver.  The upside: I cruised through those five miles at just over a six minute pace.  The downside:  In doing so, I tweaked my hamstring just enough that it wouldn't go away.  "It's cool, I'll do an even shorter run tomorrow to work out the kink and I'll be good to go."  Good one, Tab, you're a riot.

 To simplify this whole blog, I'm just going to narrate what I was thinking about through the marathon at specific points.  Let's begin our journey...

Mile 0 :  "What have I done."
Mile 0.5 :  "Thank God I've got a professional pace-runner here." (Side Note: I'm absolutely terrible at pacing myself.  My game plan usually involves running as fast as possible until I can't anymore, not historically the best strategy for running a marathon.)
Mile 1.25 :  "This pace-runner is going so slow.  There's no way he's going the right speed.  He clearly has no idea what he's doing.
Mile 7 :  "A quarter of the way there.  I got this shit."
Mile 10 :  "Dude that guy has no legs! *As I'm passing him*  Good for him, that's awesome."
Mile 13.1 :  "Halfway bitches!!  This is cake."
Mile 14 :  "Wait, I'm just now at mile 14?!?  Who's in charge of measuring here?  Are they drunk??"
Mile 16 :  [See Mile 0]
Mile 17 :  "Aren't you supposed to 'hit the wall' at Mile 20?  And where'd that pace-runner go?  Please come back..."
Mile 18 :  "I would trade every one of my siblings for a Segway right now."
Mile 19 :  "You know what, guy with no legs? *As he passes me*  Screw you.  You're part machine, this doesn't count."
Mile 20 :  "Well, on the up side I'm not focusing on my hamstring pain anymore because everything hurts now."
Mile 21 :  "This is possibly the smallest hill I've ever encountered in my entire life, and I have never hated anything more."
Mile 22 :  "Oh there you are downhill, you beautiful son of a bitch."
Mile 23 :  "Holy shit, that lady just collapsed!  I can give her my last Gu pack, she needs it way more than me..."
Mile 23.5 :  "WHAT WAS I THINKING, I SHOULD HAVE LET HER DIE.  I'M NOT GOING TO MAKE IT."
Mile 24 :  "Everything below my waistline feels like it's made of concrete.  This is the worst superpower ever."
Mile 24.5 :  I won't say what I was thinking here because in all honesty I'm not proud of it.
Mile 26 :  "So close.  So close.  0.2 miles left.  You can do this."
Mile 26.2 :  "You did it.  Congratulations.  Just keep moving and make it somewhere private before you start crying."

Finishing that race was easily the best and worst feeling of my life at the exact same time.  On one hand, I felt accomplished that I'd actually done something productive for once in my life (besides eating an entire Costco size bag of Doritos in one sitting of course).  On the other hand, my body felt like it was about as functional as the left shark from Katy Perry's halftime show.

On a lighter note, here are my top five favorite spectator signs I saw during the race:
-"Only 836,352 inches to go!"  (Just after the halfway point.)
-"Worst. Parade. Ever."  (An oldie but a goodie.)
-"You've got stamina, call me!"
-"Run bitches!"  (Held by a ~10 yr old girl.)
-"Because 26.3 would be crazy."  (Personally my favorite.)

Fact of the day:  Human feet can produce a pint of sweat a day.

Shout out to Nancy Askew.

If you start to feel good during a marathon, don't worry, you'll get over it.

That's the quote that comes to mind as I sit in bed the day before the Phoenix Rock n Roll Marathon.  That, and the fact the the only thing I see Rocking is the beer at the finish line, and the only thing Rolling will be me through the last three miles.

Oh I didn't tell you about this?  It's a funny story really, filled with epic procrastination, grandiose imagination, and totally undeserved confidence.

About nine and a half months ago I was sitting at a bar with some friends, two of which were out-of-towners and one of which was my current roommate who we'll call Benedict Arnold because a few short months later he would just up and move out, leaving me alone in our apartment for some worthless job or something.  Anyway, whilst enjoying my meal, oblivious to the future betrayal of Mr Arnold, we noticed a sign advertising the Colfax Half Marathon, and my "buddy" Benedict said we should run it.  I, being myself, as well as being a few beers into the night, stated with the confidence of an Iron Man athlete that I was not going to waster my time with a half marathon, and that if I was going to run a half, I might as well run the  whole damn thing.  Yea.  I'm an idiot.  But we'll get to that.  Anyway, he laughed and said, "You couldn't run a marathon!!"  To which I replied with he near exact words of Barney Stinson from How I Met Your Mother, "Pssh, like it's hard!"  No, idiot doesn't cover it.  Marathons to athletes are like rocket science to students, it's the reference used when they need to say something is, in fact, incredibly hard.  Before everybody gets their panties in a bunch, yes I know that other sports are hard in different ways, I'm just saying that none of those other sports involve constant exertion for an average minimum of four straight hours without stopping.  And that's if you're in good shape.  Regardless, in my reckless excitement, we typed up a four page contract, complete with medical clauses, nullification exceptions, and even a arbiter for the deal, and that was that.

I was certain that of course I could run one, as I'm in decent shape already and I had 9.5 months to train.  I've got more than enough time to step up my game, I thought.......and continued to think for the next seven months.  Then all of a sudden November hits.  This is not good.  So I start running, doing some good training when I have time, because bartending from 4 in the afternoon to somewhere between midnight and 3am while organizing 5 online courses and financial aid doesn't yield a whole bunch of free time.  Then my tonsils came out in mid December, leaving me 21 lbs lighter and bedridden for 3 weeks, and not able to run until the end of the third.  I do not believe I'm out of line when I say that my training regimen wasn't exactly professional grade.  Oh well.  So here I am, having started running again one week before the marathon, sitting in bed, feeling startlingly similar to a man on Death Row, thinking over my life and wondering where I went wrong.  Except with me, I know exactly when and where I went wrong:  The northwest seat of the back right table at Highland Tap & Burger in Denver, CO on March 8th, 2014.

I'm doing my best to keep up good practices leading up to the actually race, but a man can only do so much.  Luckily my father was a marathon runner, so I have gotten some good insider information to make sure I don't, you know, like die or anything.  Regardless, it should be an interesting experience, and you better believe I'll have a blog to post once it's over.
Seriously though, pray for me.

Fact of the day:  The world's fastest marathon runner, Wilson Kipsang, ran a marathon in 2:02:23.  (That's 4 mins 40 secs a mile.)  The world's oldest marathon runner, Fauna Singh at 100 years old, ran a marathon in 8:11:06.  (That's who I'm trying to beat.)

Shout out to Megan Denman.

On the other hand, you have different fingers.

As some of you know, I hate birds.  This might be confusing because if I were to be any animal, it would probably be some sort of bird, but since I'm not, I hate them.  Anyway, here's a list of the main few birds that I don't trust, starting with the absolute worst:

- Pigeons:  Pigeons might actually be my least favorite animal on this or any planet.  Dirty little grey sheisty pieces of sketch.  I don't like anything that constantly has an opportunity to poop on me.  With their beady little eyes, creepy freaking heads, and a color scheme than not even a mother could love, every pigeon on earth could drop dead and I would do at least one heel-kick.  And I've had older people tell me they're actually nice creatures and it's fun to feed them, but if I'm going to be honest, you're 90 years old and smell like the Boston Market, I don't care what you think.

- Peacocks (or "Rave Turkeys" as I like to call them): In my opinion, peacocks look like a turkey and an ostrich got together, did a bunch of hallucinogenic drugs, and had to draw what they thought their lovechild would look like.  Seriously though, what is your purpose (besides giving Katy Perry a way to sing about penises, that is)? Where do you live naturally?  What do you eat?  WHO SENT YOU???

- Flamingos:  I've written a good bit about why I hate flamingos, mostly relating to their overall pretentiousness and odd sense of balance, which you can read more about here.

- Parrots:  Can you imagine being the first person to hear one of these things talk?  Eff that.  Oh you think that'd be cool? You're wrong. So wrong.  Not to mention they sound like a combination of Gilbert Gottfried and Wallace Shawn.  So imagine having what could be the two most annoying roommates possible, then having to feed and water them whilst they mock everything you say and shit in your living room, laughing at you the whole time because you can't fly.  Nope.  Polly want a cyanide-laced cracker?

- Crows/Ravens: Really?  Do I even need to explain this one?  Possibly the single most referenced creatures for representing evil in literature EVER.  If you have a pet raven or crow and aren’t already committed to a mental asylum, you’d better be an evil mastermind, a creepy forest-dweller in a science fiction novel, or the owner of an world famous aviary.  I still don't understand why people were freaking out when they were dying in mass quantities.  Seems like cause for celebration to me...

I realize that made me sound like a very angry person.  I don't hate all animals though, only the shitty ones, more of which are outlined here and here.  I'm actually a very loving man with simple life goals: travel a lot, be successful, never get maced, etc.  Unfortunately there are a few animals/people that, in the words of the late Peter Griffin, "really grind my gears." Like for instance people that take up the whole grocery aisle when walking.  I'm just trying to get to the Doritos dammit, LET ME BY.  Those, in particular really get me fired up.  I try to be nice and let a small "Excuse me sir/ma'am" without getting too heated, but there's still a part of me that hopes they fall down with their hands in their pockets.  Or people that stand with their face three inches from the elevator door when waiting to get on, then act shocked to find out there's already somebody in there that needs to get off first, even though this happens almost every time.  Also, anybody that struggles with an escalator.  It's 2014, get your shit together.

I do openly admit that I'm not perfect myself*, and I'm sure there are one or two people that I've managed to annoy.  (Not including the entire organization of PETA, who have finally succeeded in blocking me on Twitter. Go Meat!)  Some of my favorite scenarios are those that start off with anger but end in karma-based humor.  For a completely-fictitious-and-in-no-way-directly-pulled-from-my-personal-experiences-in-Phoenix example, when your roommate comes home very drunk and after having what sounds like a bar fight with kitchen appliances, stumbles into your room and apologizes for eating your cookies, and in the morning you realize that you didn't actually have any cookies, but the dog treat bowl is suspiciously lower in quantity than the previous day.  

*Just kidding, I’m perfect.

Sorry for how negative this one was, the next Tablet will be positive and uplifting, I promise.

Fact of the Day: The Guinness Book of Records was originally published by Guinness Breweries as a reference for settling bar arguments.

Shout out to Stephanie Walek.

I need a six month holiday, twice a year.

Hey everybody.  Did you miss me?  Of course you did.  I got the fan/hate mail.  Anyway, it's been a solid four months since my last blog and I apologize, as I'm sure you've been checking daily for an update.  Unfortunately I have responsibilities, like.... stuff.  My excuse for the last week is that I was sick.  No not hungover, actually sick, and not just a cold or some pansy shit like food poisoning.  See, this is unique for me, as I decided a few years ago that I was done getting sick because it was a waste of time and money.  Also I didn't have health insurance.  This worked fantastically for a while for some reason and everyone was happy.  Alas, all good things must come to an end, right?  I quickly realized that luck, and more importantly, bad luck stores up like rollover minutes from Cingular.  I wasn't escaping sickness, I was stockpiling it so at some point it could go effing Godzilla on my ass.  I realized that I had used up so much good luck that at this point I was liable to die from someone else's game of Russian Roulette.  Everything's just peachy on Thursday, then Friday morning I wake up and my throat is kinda scratchy.  Long night, so that’s pretty normal, right?  Wrong, idiot.  And this is not a sore throat from talking too much, because anyone that knows me knows that I've have not stopped talking since I turned 2.  My first word was a goddamned paragraph and I never slowed down.  No no, this was something much worse.  Have you ever had Strep Throat?  Chances are you have, or at least know someone that has.  It's terrible.  It feels like there's a rock in your throat and you try your hardest not to swallow anything, not even spit.  Have you ever had Tonsillitis?  50/50 chance there.  It not exactly a breeze either.  Now, have you ever even heard of a peritonsillar abscess?  I'm just going to go ahead and assume no, because most people haven't read “Satan's Personal Recipe Book Of Horrors.”  I won't describe exactly what it is because it’s just terrible and if there’s even the slightest chance that you still find me attractive after all these blogs, I'd like to hold on to that.  Well any of these three can easily send you to the hospital on their own if not immediately attended to in the right way, and some will send you there anyway because screw you.  Well guess what?  I didn't have one of these, I had all damn three.  I had the mother effing Avengers of throat maladies coming at me like I stole their firstborn, and I didn't even have enough warning to send a card to my mom to apologize for how many times I say f*ck on this blog.  Luckily, I'm invincible (not invulnerable, there's a difference), and I'm on the mend after only four days, a couple thousand Advil, antibiotics, a few knives in my throat, one egg, and a bowl of soup.  On the up side, I lost a grand total of 12 pounds in the first three days and I'm ready for the BEACH.

Wow, that was a lengthy rant.  I haven't been able to talk for a few days so it's been building up.  Moving on, let’s hate on kids for a minute to lighten things up.  I saw a kid the other day in the park with his mom and another mother-son combo.  They looked like they we were having a grand ol’ time bonding in the sun, at least at first.  At the beginning I wasn't watching them very intently because I'm not a creepy little pervert like I assume most of you are, but that changed quickly when an altercation sparked up.  It was just the kid whining, then the mom knelt down to "scold him," meaning she clenched his arm with the strength of the Hulk and whispered in his ear that if he didn't lock it down she would ruin him the exact second they got back home.  I assume that's what was said at least, and that's usually where the tantrum ends.  Usually.  Not here.  When she let go and started to stand up, Bratty McDouchekid rears back, Iron Man toy in hand, and brings a right hook into mommy's face that would make Mike Tyson spit out Evander Holyfield's ear and just go home.  Now he was just a kid, and I've always said that childhood is a lot like being drunk, because everyone remembers what you did except you, but this is not the kind of thing you laugh about later.  This is the kind of thing that needs to be fixed or this kid grows up to be a terrorist.  Not an actual terrorist, but a social terrorist.  The kind of 20 year old that needs to be hit in the face with an active jackhammer.  I know plenty of people my age that fit that demographic, and I wish that when they were young and this sort of situation occurred someone would have grabbed them by their stupid little idiot head and dragged them to the car, driven home, put their Xbox in the woodchipper and grounded them til they turned 40.

I’m going to be a phenomenal father one day.

Fact of the Day: Omar bin Laden (Osama's son) was denied citizenship in Britain in 2007 because Omar “failed to provide his father's permanent address".


Shout out to Evan Wolfson.

I love cooking with wine. Sometimes I even put it in the food.

So as you know by now I have an extensive and eccentric list of things I hate the most (how’s that for a happy start?), but I've got a new addition.  Here is the updated top ten list for those of you who've somehow forgotten:

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.  Tornado Chasers


8.  Flamingos


9.  Wheelbarrow Races


10. Cereal


The update, of course, is the addition of Tornado Chasers.  I don't know why this came to mind the other day, but I realized that I find these people really irksome.  In the shows they're always so hyped up like they're on the edge of some new frontier.  I hate to break it to you friends, but we know pretty much everything there is to know about tornados.  The people in the cars also act like they're the ultimate adrenaline junkies.  You're not.  Skydivers, base jumpers, wing suit divers, those are adrenaline junkies.  You people are just idiots.  I mean I'm no rocket surgeon, but if you keep doing what you're doing you aren't going to get whisked off to Oz, you're going to be pelted in the face by bullet-like rain and get hit in the face with a Volvo.  Then again, I guess Darwin will take care of these people for us eventually so whatever.


So as some of you know I just moved again, this time to Denver, and while I know a grand total of four people here including myself, it seems like a perfectly good place.  What made this trip interesting was the process of getting up here.  Not the decision making process, that is.  That took all of three beers and eleven seconds.  The actual travel up here was the good part.  Of course by "good" I mean "fantastically stressful".  My game plan from the beginning was fly back to the Georgia on the 20th to see my mom, then to Dallas to see my dad, then back to Phoenix where I’d work for one more week, then calmly and safely drive up to Denver and move into my new place.  Here's what actually happened:  On December 18th I lost my car.  No, I don't mean I forgot where I parked it for five minutes or left it at a friend’s house for a night, I actually lost it.  Like on-the-phone-with-the-police-to-report-it-stolen lost it.  Luckily, before I actually called, I had a network of cabbies looking for it while I was at work.  They found it, told me where it was, and I didn't ask any questions.  (This is how things work in my world.)  So, on the morning of the 20th I got a ride to my car so I could pack up and head to the airport.  Things were looking alright, then I got in my car, started driving, and my tire blew out.  Already frantic and running late, I hopped out and put my spare tire on as fast as I could, which was pretty damn fast.  I then got in my car, drove roughly thirty yards, and my spare tire blew out.  Just wonderful.  At that point I just drove it home and a friend took me to the airport.  When I got back I had to go buy and new wheel and tire, change it, and get to work by 11:30am the next morning.  Thankfully everything worked out pretty smoothly until I left Phoenix a week later to drive up, which was an unbelievable exhausting drive during which I was so delirious I began coming up with names for the trees I was passing.  I got here though, and within a week had found an apartment, a bed, and a couch.  And on top of all that I got a job too, life was looking up!  A little too up though, apparently, cause on the way back from the interview in which I was hired, guess what happened?!?!  My back right tire blew out. "You're kidding, right?"  NO I'M NOT KIDDING DAMMIT.  There have been very few times in my life where I was so instantly exhausted and totally enraged at the same time.  Anyway, all of this was basically to say that I'm very frustrated with customer service companies that have to come to you to provide service.  I know it's pretty freaking spoiled to say that, but honestly it feels like every time you need service from Comcast, or in this case AAA, they reply in a sickeningly enthusiastic tone, "Absolutely, we'd be delighted to help!  We'll be there sometime between 1:30pm and June."


Speaking of timing, I've decided that when it comes to waking up in the morning, I'd rather freak out and jump up because I'm running behind schedule way more than waking up early.  Why?  Because either way I'm going to end up in a totally panicked state, trying to get ready in time.  Let me explain.  When I wake up, look at the clock and see I'm running twenty minutes late, I turn into the epitome of efficiency.  There is no “waking up process”.  I launch out of bed like I just did three lines of cocaine and chased it with two liters of espresso.  I'm in the shower before my boxers are off, jump out, dress, inhale breakfast, and boom, I'm at work/school/Sea World right on time.  Waking up early, though, that's dangerous.  When I wake up early I lounge in bed for a while, and lazily move about the house because hey, why not?  I've got so much time.  You don't really pay attention to the clock because you're way ahead of schedule, right?  WRONG.  You lower your guard, and think you can get on facebook/twitter/foodnetwork.com cause you have time to kill, then all of a sudden you realize you were supposed to leave eight minutes ago, and all you've done so far is watch a video of LeBron playing the violin, read three articles about the best way to refinish a coffee table you don't even own, and taken an online quiz to determine your Disney spirit animal.  (It's Pegasus.)  Either way you're going to have a split second heart attack, so you might as well sleep in before it happens.  

Fact of the Day:  Hippo milk is pink.

Shout out to Tori Kennedy.