DIY: Haircuts

You guys probably have realized at this point that I have super short hair. I feel like my default mode is short hair. I think it looks better on me. It has mostly been short for my entire adult life.


Lately I have been growing it out and donating it. It’s kind of a never ending cycle of that awkward growing out phase. Which is fine by me, because I am never pleased with my hair. If I am looking in a mirror, know that I am spending 99% of that time hating on my hair.


At the same time, I can only imagine my shitty hair is better than being bald. And since I am not doing anything useful with it, I donate it. It takes about two years to grow out and then I chop it all off and start all over again.


Though if I were this gorgeous I could pull off the bald thing…


I used to cut my own hair for many years. I really don’t like people touching me. And I am incredibly awkward at banal chit chat. And I really don’t like having someone massaging my scalp with their cleavage in my face unless we are dating. Plus, I am pretty cheap and don’t really care if I give myself a shitty haircut.


Which I did. Many, many times.  But let me tell you about this one time…


It was about 5 years ago. I was 25 and in the worst relationship of my entire life. I had shoulder length hair and was so bored with it. I was unhappy with a lot of things, but I stupidly thought a new hairdo would resolve the issues I was having.


He was off at the gym when I took a pair of scissors to my head. Now, keep in mind, I had been cutting my own hair for YEARS. I was self taught. A few YouTube videos and a hand mirror were all you really needed. And the courage to not give a shit if you looked awful.


I didn’t have special hair cutting scissors, which I do now. These were just normal craft scissors. Growing up in a crafting family with a mother that made clothing, I respected scissors. I knew that there were rules. Scissor rules.


Only buy Fiskars. They are the best.


The classic


Pinking shears are not to be touched ever. Don’t even fucking think about touching them!


Scissors can only cut one thing. There are yarn scissors, paper scissors, fabric scissors. Crossing materials will seriously jack up your scissors, so don’t do it.


I still live by the scissor rules. I have a pair of pinking shears and I don’t even let myself touch them.




So, I was standing in the bathroom with a hand mirror and my Fiskars. And I started cutting. The secret to giving yourself a cute haircut is patience. You can always cut off more, but you can’t add what you cut off.


As you all know by now, I have very little patience. I started out in the front going slow. I wanted some adorable short pixie cut. And I think short hair suits me.


I always love her hair!


But the longer it took the less patient I got. I started grabbing chunks and cutting. I knew what I was doing. I had done it a dozen times.


When I was finished I was really impressed with myself. I looked fucking adorable. And I don’t say that about myself often.


T came home and I ran out to show him my mad hair cutting skills. I had put a cute headband on and I just felt adorable. I twirled for him.


“Wait a minute. Turn around again.” His voice sounded strange. Serious.


I felt a sense of foreboding in the pit of my stomach. I turned.


“Did you use a mirror?” He asked.


“Yeah. Why?”


“Um, I think you cut it too short. Here.” He touched my head. He was literally touching my head.


I had cut my hair too short in one spot. There was a quarter sized bald spot right in the back of my head. I ran into the bathroom and got up on the counter and looked again. Yep. There it was.


I don’t know how I had missed it. But now it was all I could see. That giant glaring mistake ruining my adorable haircut and my cuteness.


Basically this


The next day at work I wore a baseball hat. There was only a skeleton crew and one of the people working, M, was a new guy I had befriended. I sat down next to him and tried to play it cool. I asked him how he was doing.


He burst into tears and told me that he and his wife had decided to get a divorce. You’d think I’d be better at handling emotional outbursts based on the number of times I have them. But I’m not.


I wasn’t sure how to proceed. Should I hug him? Pat his hand? Tell him that his wife was a total skanky bitch? I really didn’t know.

crying animated GIF

This is me. Only I hate touching people.

I was an awkward deer caught in the headlights of human emotional interaction.


I panicked and yanked my hat off. “I gave myself a haircut last night and fucked it up so bad that I look mentally challenged or deranged!”


He looked at me silently for about 10 seconds and then started laughing his ass off.


We had a few more serious talks about his divorce after that, but any time he seemed like he was going to cry I would just point out my weird patchy bald spot that was trying to fill in. And we would both crack up all over again.


April Search Terms

Guys, I have had a shitty week both emotionally and healthwise. I had really only planned to do one post about my search terms. But I think it is going to turn into a monthly segment. Because this shit is amazing. And reading them made me feel better. And I haven’t written anything because I am working too much this week too.


Thank you for the search terms. I love all you weirdos.


Nacho Taco Bell- I keep hoping that if I talk about them often enough, they’ll talk back to me.


Chest Pain Felt Through the Back- This sounds serious. Probably something for 911 instead of Google.


Speculum- Have I ever even talked about speculums? Probably, actually. Knowing me. I always thought they looked like guns.




Pew! Pew!


Urination- I bet my mother would be so proud.


I got off the toilet and I got back pain- Listen, I may be old and falling apart. But I’m not at the point where I injure myself in bathroom related incidents. Yet. I swear, I really did fall down a flight of stairs. Sober.


Sex videos I wanted to fuck the meter reader- Should I be flattered? Concerned? I feel like I am disappointing so many people with the lack of porn on my blog.


I like fairies- I think we all do, my friend.


Back pain after falling down stairs- There were several variations on this. Story of my life right there.


Dogs breath smells rotting potatoes- Lots of things smell like rotting potatoes on the internet, apparently.


Sexy math- ALL math is sexy math


Cute Billy Boyd- I keep hoping if I talk about him often enough, he’ll talk back to me. Sorry for disappointing whoever was expecting to see some pictures of Billy Boyd. But let me make up for it now.




Sexy neaud (sic) doctor fingering pics- I don’t get the sexy part. Or the horrible spelling part.


I watched as my little sister peed in the cup- I think we’ve all been there. Or is that just me and this searcher?


I miss my period for a month and when I use the washroom I am passing sherik (sic) of blood sometimes- Once again, probably something for 911 instead of Google. I don’t know how much a sherik is, but it sounds dangerous. And vaguely Middle Eastern.


My character crush is fucked up- I am kind of offended this took you here. YOUR crush might be fucked up, but mine is totally normal.


How to stick a suppository up my boyfriend’s ass- The same way you’d stick anything else up his ass, it’s pretty self explanatory.


Naked woman that’s had heart surgery- Um…I’m not naked. At least as far as you know.


Gag sister story- Wow. Yeah. I’ve never gagged my sister. I don’t think I have ever even talked about gags. I mean, till now.


Fucking a stuffed animal that came to life- This is possibly illegal and you should take way less drugs before fucking your stuffed animal/actual animal. Or is this an idea for a movie, like that Mannequin movie? Because it is still kind of horrifying.


I need to die but can’t- Don’t worry, you will definitely eventually die. Unless you are immortal. Please be immortal.


Publix is shit- No it isn’t. You are wrong ma’am or sir. Publix is amazing.


Ingering (sic) gives me pain on the hip bone- I keep saying this in a sing song-y voice in my head. I like it. Thank you.


Male teenage suppository administration stories- I really feel like this more oddly specific porn searches.

Underwear for hematoma- It would be really cool if they had underwear that looked like you had a hematoma. Right? It’s going on my list of money making schemes.




Hey guys. My throat has been hurting for about a week. I finally looked at it in the mirror on Saturday morning. You might ask who is irresponsible enough to wait a week to investigate their throat pain? Me, apparently.


What I saw was horrifying and I instantly regretted it. It looked like those slime monsters from Adventure Time.


My tonsils. Sexy!


I went to Urgent Care, because why would any regular doctor or Ear, Nose, and Throat doctor be open on a Saturday? They looked at it and immediately recognized it as strep. I am a bit of a frequent flyer with strep throat.


The lady doctor told me I might want to think about getting my tonsils removed since I was habitually getting it. Apparently it can move into the heart and cause issues. Like I need any more of that. Also, I hear if you get them removed all you can eat is ice cream.


This is how I want to imagine it. Don’t correct me in the comments, please.


But my throat looked so bad it reminded me of something that happened with A. This isn’t really my story, but I was there and that relationship turned out so badly. The least I can get out of it is a good story. So here goes.


This was in February of last year. A and I had broken up in January, but he was refusing to move out. Luckily, there were two bedrooms.


He had  been complaining of a sore throat for a few days, but refused to go see a doctor since he had no money or health insurance. Finally, he could barely talk and his voice sounded weird. I offered to help him pay for the visit since it was his birthday and I was starting to worry that he was going to die.


We went to an urgent care, but the doctor there sent us away. He said it looked like he had Peritonsillar Abscess. Which is an internal infection that can occur when Strep or tonsillitis goes untreated. And his voice was a symptom that was sometimes called ‘hot potato voice’ you can look it up online, it sounds freaky. He said we needed to see an ENT.

Every image I looked up was nasty. So, no thanks.

So, we went to see this ENT. She took one look at his tonsils and told us there was nothing she could do for us. She referred us to another ENT. She even called and set up an emergency appointment for us with him. That’s when I suspected this Perio-tonsil thing was serious.


At the second ENT’s office we met the ENT I like to call Dr. DudeBro. He came in with a popped collar and was possibly younger than myself. He talked like a surfer frat boy.




Totally, bro.


He looked at A’s tonsils and told us, “it like, totally needed to be lanced.”  It was going to be $500 to do. He could do it right then, if we wanted. Which he “super recommended.” Because that infection could go into A’s brain and kill him.


But A didn’t want to spend the money. And he didn’t trust Dr. DudeBro to lance his tonsils. And he didn’t know what ‘lancing’ was.


Dr. DudeBro left the room so we could “discuss or whatever.” And that’s when I snapped. Just so you guys know, I am not always sweet and understanding (Ha! Did any of you think I was?)


I had just about had enough of A’s shit for one day. We weren’t dating anymore. He was abusive. And I had spent the whole day driving him all over to various doctor’s offices. I am pretty uptight about germs, so hanging out with sick people gets me extra freaked out. I am sure he was having a worse day as it was his birthday and he felt terrible. But I had lost the little sympathy I had for him.


I whirled on him and told him he was getting his fucking tonsils lanced or I would leave his stupid ass here and he could walk home. And then he was going to die and it would serve him right.


After my little pep talk, he decided to borrow the money from his father to get his tonsils lanced. I fronted him the money since the ENT needed it upon checkout.


Dr. DudeBro came back in. He had a scalpel and a suction tube. As you guys may know, I am totally fascinated by medical procedures. I wanted in on this lancing action.



Here is an old timey tonsil remover. I love the case.


Dr. DudeBro sat A down in the chair. He didn’t use any anaesthetic or painkiller. He peered into A’s mouth. There was a tension in the room as he slowly drew the scalpel closer and closer to A’s tonsils. He moved so slowly. I was holding my breath in anticipation.


Then, like a snake striking, he punctured A’s tonsils. The movement was so quick, had I not been staring so intently, I would have missed it. He shoved the suction tube into A’s open wound and started vacuuming it out.


They make those tubes clear so I could watch all the blood and pus get sucked out. It was shocking how much was in there. And why are they always clear?


He put A on a round of antibiotics and I never saw Dr. DudeBro again.


11 Dumb Ways to Die

I make a lot of jokes on here about the ways I am likely to die. I am not in any particular rush to die, but I am also not afraid of it either. I am a little concerned with how I die however. So I thought I would tell you all the top ways I am convinced I am going to die. (J, if you are reading this, you may want to just stop here, it’s all death jokes after this).


I hope this doesn’t  turn into some self-fulfilling prophecy where I get famous for some reason and then some crazy fan decides to murder me. But if it happens, it happens.


I have long expected to be stabbed to death in a laundromat. I have mentioned it here and here. I had a death dream about it once. Did you guys see that episode of Adventure Time with the cosmic owl in Jake’s death dream? Like that but in a laundromat instead of space. Also, anyone that has spent time in a laundromat can sympathize with that fear.

Adventure Time!

In all honesty, the way I am truly most likely to die is of a stroke. I’ve already had somewhere between 5-10 of them at this point. I’m starting to feel like my continued existence is taunting life. Like I am daring it to give me more health issues. “Is that all you’ve got, universe?!”

Knowing me, yes. Probably.

I definitely have liver failure to look forward to. Between the heart medications, the migraine medication and now the back pain medication, my liver has aged about 80 years. In case the government is reading this, some medical marijuana would go a long way to reducing my risk of liver failure (nudge, nudge). I’d probably already be dead if I drank on top of my prescription drug usage.

But since I am responsible and care about my lung health, I’d get prescription marijuana brownies.

My most recent ex has inspired many friends, co-workers, and courtroom sheriffs to suggest I buy a gun for home self defense. While I can see the appeal of owning a gun, I have literally never touched a real gun. In fact, I have barely touched a fake gun. My parents didn’t allow us to have fake guns growing up. And you’d best believe that I am an insufferable asshole when I get my hands on one. But I am 100% convinced that if I have a gun in my house, someone is going to break in and shoot me with it. If someone wants to kill me, they need to bring their own gun.

I pretty much act like this. With any toy gun. And make shooting noises.

After this post, where I mentioned my proclivity for roadside peddlers I began to realize my bizarre preferences and idiotic curiosity will possibly lead to my death. I’ll pull over to see the history of the sanitary napkin museum (which I know is a real thing and yes I am dying to go), and be murdered by the curator (no offense to the curator, who I am sure is quite lovely). Because I am a moron and will stop to look at anything I find interesting, which is almost everything.


Also, while I’m on the subject, I’m going to tell you a few ways I am worried I am going to die that don’t actually make sense:


Zombie apocalypse. There is no way I am living through that shit.



Traveling back in time and dying from a disease that there is a cure for now, but that didn’t have one then. Apparently, it has a name: Chronohypochondia. 


Tripping and accidentally falling off a building/down a flight of stairs or escalator/into a woodchipper/through a piece of glass/out a window.

Only I would die. Or herniate a disc. I’m that good.

Monsters. Even though I don’t believe in them.


Cutting myself on some craft supply, like a crystal or animal tooth and dying of some as yet undiscovered disease (though it would hopefully be named after me which would be pretty sweet).


Choking to death on something alone in my apartment. Actually, if you guys saw the way I eat, that isn’t so far-fetched.
And then, finally, the way I hope to die. In my 90s, peacefully weeding my herb garden. I’ll be wearing a big straw hat and some god awful pants because I will be a bad ass old lady that does not give a fuck. I hope I just lie down to take a rest and never wake up.


UPDATE: I just remembered two other ways I want to die. Spontaneous combustion or in the middle of sex. You cant get too mad at either of those amazing choices.

The Trip to IKEA

After my most recent heart surgery; I had a massive hematoma on my inner thigh. By massive, I mean it was the length of my entire inner thigh from my knee to my groin and it spread to half the thickness of my thigh as well.



I actually have a picture of it, but it turned out to be a bit of a crotch shot (a disturbingly graphic underwear shot)  and I don’t want to traumatize you kind people any more than I already have with my stories. But here’s a picture of exactly what it looked like.


It looked exactly like this.


It was so swollen and painful and I had to go back into the ER for a few days so they could do an MRI of it to make sure I wasn’t going to bleed to death internally. The thing I like best about MRIs is how they take a day or so to be analyzed so you have plenty of time to think about blood transfusions and internal bleeding. Fun times.


I was out of work for two months after the surgery and one day my brother and I decided to go to IKEA. I had never been before and had been wanting to go for some time. I  had also heard of it’s magical  ability to initiate arguments in any group that went there. I sort of imagined it to be the equivalent of wearing a horcrux. I was secretly excited to test it out.


Why am I not a member of this club?!


When T and I got there, I was already having a bit of trouble walking but I was determined, as usual, to do whatever the hell I wanted (despite it being a very bad idea). Heart surgeries and hematomas be damned! This is the part where I tell you again that I am an idiot.


Walking into the store through the parking lot, we found a collapsible cane. I hobbled out into oncoming traffic to rescue it from being run over. I felt it was very serendipitous but T was worried we were taking a cane from someone that needed it. My attitude was: fuck the original owner. I legitimately needed a cane. And if the owner had needed it so badly, he/she wouldn’t have left it in the parking lot to begin with.




How sexy is this?


I used the cane for the remaining months and in fact still own it.


T and I had intended to rent me a wheelchair once we got into IKEA. It doesn’t get you reduced wait times or anything, but it was the best solution we had. At that point I had ridden in wheelchairs all over the place. Grocery stores, parks, malls, basically anywhere anyone would rent one.


Like being on a rollercoaster.


If any of you have never ridden in a wheelchair, they are pretty fun, provided it is temporary. But they give me hella motion sickness. Also, people treat you very differently when you are in a wheelchair.


For one thing, did you know you aren’t allowed to have a sense of humor when you are ill in public? Any time I made a joke about my health condition, I horribly offended other people that had never gone through what I was going through. Also, if I laughed at anything anyone else did, people questioned the seriousness of my illness.


I had several people comment that I didn’t look ill enough to need to rent a wheelchair. Even people that were actively making money off of renting me a wheelchair. This is another one of those 0 to bitch in 0.3 second moments of my life. I don’t generally get all ranty on this blog: but fuck those people. Seriously. Fuck them.


It turns out the wait for the wheelchairs was longer than anything I have patience for (ie: more than 5 minutes). So T grabbed a flatbed shopping cart and suggested he push me around on it. I looked at the uncomfortable metal frame. I looked at T. I could tell he really wanted to do this.


My chariot




Also, there wasn’t any other way (aside from waiting in line for 5 minutes) for me to view the store. So I gingerly climbed on.

My brother and I went on a tour of IKEA. It was one of the most fun days I have ever had. It was like being pushed around on a shitty, uncomfortable bed frame. And he and I disproved the IKEA fight theory. Or maybe it only works for couples.

Tour My Apt part 2 (This time it’s personal)

Due to popular demand, two very kind people humoring me, I decided to go for part two in the series:







This is a seeder. It’s used to evenly spread seeds. I kind of love industrial equipment. I find it fascinating. And my mother grew up on a farm.




This is an Appalachian door harp. I found it at a thrift store not knowing what it was. It was just cool looking and pretty. Now I love it; it makes a lovely chime whenever I open or close the door.





Can I post art? Oh well, I hope so. This is Princess Peach and the Pea. The Princess and the Pea was my absolute favorite fairy tale. It was made by the insanely talented the P is for Penis. Check out his stuff. I met him at ComicCon. A lot of my art comes from there.





In case you didn’t know, I am almost legally blind. This makes me feel better about looking so nerdy with my thick frames. Another ComicCon original.




Ladies, space, octopi. Need I say more. Again, from ComicCon. P.S. I am an awful picture taker.





This photo doesn’t do Bette Davis justice. This is a massive oil painting. Maybe five feet by four feet. Some crazy person at a job was going to throw it away. Now she watches over me.





One of my most prized possessions. My sister, J, made these paper flowers for me during my first (15 day) hospital stay. It took her over 4 hours. When I see them, I am reminded of how much she really loves me. And how worried she was about me.









Mother of pearl button wreath I made. I adore it.




I make these ridiculous things. My apartment is covered with them, but this one is a favorite. I love the spanking cover. Best/worst thing about being a crafter.




This was a graduation present from my gay first boyfriend. He was a German exchange student. I love it.


I have lots more but I feel this post is getting a bit too long. Maybe I’ll do another one to add to this series.


As a special bonus though:




I went to this amazing beach for my birthday last year. I thought the rocks were just telling me they loved me, in a platonic way.




Until I saw Penis Rock. Calm down there, buddy. (My brother was uncharacteristically unappreciative of this). But I dare you to tell me that doesn’t look like a penis.


And, yet another post I have gotten out of doing any real writing on.






Banana Seat Bike

As I may have previously mentioned, I have many older sisters. When I was around seven or eight my sister, W, gave me her banana seat bike. It was ludicrously too big for me. And I didn’t know how to ride a grown up bike.

Like this, but obviously better.

But I was determined to learn to ride it. This bicycle was… magic.  It was yellow and white like a banana cream pie. I think it had some stickers on it, Rainbow Brite, My Little Pony, Strawberry Shortcake. The original 70’s version. Something like that.

I collect rainbow themed things. I know I’m cool.

It represented everything I wanted for myself. To be grown up, and strong and  tall and as beautiful as the sister that gave it to me. I still dream about this bike now, almost 20 years later.


I tried to teach myself to ride it. There was nobody to help me. And I was already fiercely independent by that age. Either I would teach myself to ride this bike, or I would seriously injure myself trying.


It turns out, I would injure myself trying. I don’t even know how many times I fell off. How many cuts and scrapes I got trying to master this new skill.

Ha! I need this in my apt.

Looking back, I am amazed at my determination. I wasn’t afraid of getting hurt. I was afraid of this beautiful bike going to waste. I wasn’t discouraged. I kept getting back on that bicycle with a determination that borders on the obsessive and deranged.


After a few days of this, a neighbor girl rode by and saw me struggling. I did not know her. She was older. Younger than my older sisters, but too old to want to be friends with me.


I was painfully uncool in my hand me down clothes and god awful hair. I remember her being tall and impossibly cool for a preteen girl. She had perfect silken hair and wore real lipstick!

I remember her exactly like this…




She offered to help me learn. I hesitated to accept her help. I had already learned many lessons on trust and betrayal. But I didn’t see any other way to learn. I accepted.  I don’t even remember her name.


It took her one day to teach me to ride. But a few weeks for me to learn to stop. During that time, I just dragged my feet along the ground until I slowed enough to jump off. The bicycle really was too big for me to properly stop on anyway. But I planned on growing into it. This bike and I were going to be together forever. I was going to learn bicycle maintenance just to keep it in perfect shape.


Only a few short weeks after mastering the skill of riding a grown up bike, it was stolen off our front porch in the night. I was crushed with disappointment. I was never going to be a beautiful, tall, strong adult.  I cried. I was inconsolable for weeks. I would lie awake at night and wonder who had my bike now. I knew they would never love it the way I did.


My parents bought me a new bike a few years later. But it could never live up to the banana seat bike. My memory of it had built my stolen bicycle up so much. It had become a mythological creature in my mind.


The new bike didn’t stand a chance. It was a mountain bike, pink and purple. It seemed garish and crass compared to the banana seat bike. It was too girly for my taste. Who was it trying to impress with it’s rugged tires?

I think it was literally this bike. I mean, not this exact bike. But, you know what I mean.

It was like eating Godiva dark chocolate truffles for months and then being expected to be satisfied with a bar of stale Hershey’s chocolate. My love affair with biking had ended. And it was never again rekindled.


I need some after recalling the sad tale of my stolen bike.