Rosie

A gift from my comrade to me
It's beautiful and it is free
Pungent and pink
Malodorous stink
She oozes self-satisfied glee.

She trots tip-of-toe and gives chase
Then presents herself right to my face
There's nothing heinous
About my cat's anus                                                            
Pride compliments her feminine grace.

G. S.

Ode to the Drunk Guy at the Two-Story McDonald's in East Lansing on St. Patrick's Day

I jumped when he yelled, "Where all the white girls at?"
It was expected, of course, but still crude
Frightened, I shrank down where I sat
Glad that from behind I look like a dude.

It was funny until he became asinine, 
Knocking trays off of tables and so on
I was terrified our table was next in line,
And I was winning at Settlers of Catan.

Now, looking back,
It was not because he was black,
Or inebriated, that was the norm.

Yet despite threatening oddities
I was flush with commodities
And took my opponents by storm.

G. S.

Albatross Soup

Yesterday I hung out with my best friend Anna and her boyfriend Miles all evening.

I had two incredible revelations while I was with them.

We were standing in the kitchen scavenging for food when Miles used "high-five" as a form of strictly-verbal positive feedback and I immediately decided to steal it from him because IT IS HILARIOUS.

Miles literally just says "High five!" like someone would say "Cool!" or "Good job!" and then when the other person holds up their hand for a high five, he has already moved on, having only meant to casually congratulate them, oblivious to the fact that his statement traditionally indicates a physical response. It's the new "Tits."

Revelation No. 1: Check.


Later that night I made the horrible discovery of the only way my boyfriend has been a bad influence on me. Here's the scenario.

We were in Anna's living room and Miles suggested a movie, an independent horror flick called "Hunger." He said it was about cannibalism, some guy puts six people in a cellar together with only water and leaves them to their own devices. (Caution - spoilers ahead.) That's all the information I had when the movie began.

It opened on a car wreck in the wilderness, and cut to the person in the passenger seat, a young kid. Being one of those people, I immediately started asking questions.

"Is that kid going to be one of the people in the cellar?"

"No, just watch."

Then we see the kid look slowly to his left, and the camera pans over to show a dead woman in the driver's seat, presumably his mother.


I sat in contemplative silence for about twenty seconds before shouting, "The kid grows up to be the guy who puts the six people in the cellar because he's crazy because when he was little he got in a car accident and had to eat his mom to survive!"


I knew that I was correct when Miles burst out with a "GodDAMMIT, Grace!" and started looking for something else for us to watch. (We ended up with Patton Oswalt stand-up instead, which is way better.)

I know it was a dick move on my part. It is absolutely my boyfriend Connor's fault that I did it. I swear, it's his fucking hobby to accurately predict the entire plot of a movie from the first sixty seconds. On the off-chance he isn't right, he usually consoles himself by pointing out gaping plot holes. I get so mad at him for this.

That being said, I was extremely proud of myself for guessing the entire movie in the first minute and saw the hypocrisy and did not care. Looking back, it's been creeping up on me for a while. Every Wednesday night when I watch "Modern Family" with my parents, I spend the whole episode calling out what's going to happen just before it does and then saying how I could totally be a television writer. It was only a matter of time before my journey to the dark side was complete. (Also my parents might kick me out.)

To all friends of myself and my boyfriend Connor, let this be a warning: We are ruthless, we are not afraid to ruin nostalgic old favorites or shatter fond memories, we take every opening title as a challenge, and one way or another, we will absolutely (and shamelessly) ruin the movie for you.

End Revelation No. 2.

How to Blergh.

I'm having trouble drawing pictures to go along with my posts. I had a really funny idea the other day for a doodle to go along with a draft titled "Poopy Snow Bag" (it's a gem) but it turns out, I'm not great at drawing people unless they're standing, facing forwards, hands at their sides. I'm working on it. IT'S THE CLIMB. 

Because this is only my fifth or sixth post and anyone who doesn't know me doesn't have a great idea of my sense of humor, that "IT'S THE CLIMB." was purely satirical. The impression that it leaves - that of a hockey mom in jeans with rhinestones on the back pockets and a key-chain with a breast cancer awareness ribbon on it sporting the above phrase, coined by some person I don't know, made worse by Miley Cyrus - being a departure from my actual persona, contrasts in a way that some would consider ironic humor. For all anyone on the internet knows, I am a hockey mom who goes tanning and buys all of my vehicles new even though it's a horrible financial decision because they decrease in value a huge amount as soon as you drive it off the lot. When in reality, I'm a swell young gal who just likes hanging out and cracking wise.

I promise I won't do that more than a few more times. I don't over-explain in real life in a condescending way, I over-explain using feigned condescension that is exaggerated just enough so that the explainee recognizes that I'm not over-explaining because I think they don't understand, I'm over-explaining to make fun of people who over-explain for real. 

Imagine I said all of that kind of deadpan and with sort of bad breath - I imagine that's what talking to me in person is like. 

Grace write funny someday.

It's the climb.

The Art of Being Intertwined

Well, I lied. Niches are dumb. I don't really have one. As a feeble-minded woman, I have different things to write about depending on the day. There will inevitably be entertaining stories about my job sprinkled throughout, it's a big part of my life. Someday when I have an ipad and a stylus, I'll draw bad comics to go with the blog and then people will read it. I'm not going to lie, I only read the ones with drawings. No shame.


Today, the subject that's been weighing on my mind most heavily is relationships.

Maybe it's the "Bridezillas" marathon that I had this morning.

Maybe it's the argument I had with my boyfriend a few hours ago.

Probably the latter, but "Bridezillas" will make a good cultural reference for later on if I can't think of a better one. I almost always think of a better one.

Connor and I have been dating for almost a year. Both of us have been in long-term relationships before, every one of which met it's own unique demise. We are far from seasoned professionals. However, we have the two vital things necessary for a happy relationship - friendship and chemistry - and things are going really, really well.

They still are. I know I said we had a fight this morning, but it was resolved and we ended up talking for an embarrassingly long time about ridiculous stuff and making each other laugh.

One of the best things about my relationship with Connor is that we can both be happy alone. It took me about eighteen years to figure out how to be happy on my own, and I still have to remind myself every once in a while. (Okay, often.) The fact that we can both be happy alone and choose to be happy together is what makes it so wonderful.

There was a fight - possibly our first fight - that happened about three months into the relationship. We were angry and tired and rashly "called it quits." I attempted a goofy gesture - obviously successful - to win him back, which ended with a poorly drawn picture of the two of us holding each other, our limbs becoming vines and growing together so that we were entwined. It was a reference to a song by The Hush Sound, but I still meant it. See below for a shitty re-creation.

The actual drawing is not pornographic. Everything I draw on Paint just looks like genitalia. 

That being said, I've been thinking about what it takes to become fully intertwined with someone, and why I don't ever doubt our relationship.

It takes years for vines to form around each other and produce a stronger vine. I look at my paternal grandparents, who had what I hope to have someday in a marriage. By the time I was born and got to know them, they were professionals - they knew exactly how the other would react in any given situation, they knew each other better than anyone else in the world, and it was still fresh and exciting because they continued to fulfill their lifelong dreams, only they did it side by side. Of course, that doesn't mean that they didn't have conflicts or "the same fight" over and over again. They did. When it came down to it, though, Grandma and Grandpa could go to Pastries by T for breakfast every morning and still have things to talk about over their toast. They were always learning, always reading, always discovering, and because they were with each other, they had opportunities and experiences that they never would have had otherwise.


Vines take years to form. Ivy takes longer than six months to reach the roof of a house. I'm in it for the long haul, though, and it's only a matter of time before Connor and I can function flawlessly, sinuously if you will, contouring to fit each other while still maintaining our own distinctive shapes.

Abed Nadir once said, "When you really know who you are and what you like about yourself, changing for other people isn't such a big deal."

Abed, you're a god.

Previously Mentioned Zebulon Pike Limerick

The vast amount of knowledge I have about Zebulon Pike is due to the fact that I was absent the day we picked explorers in 5th grade. Stupid Paige got Sally Ride and those two girls that were best friends picked Lewis and Clark aww, get it because Lewis and Clark were best friends, right? Ugh. I returned after what was one of maybe two entire days of school I missed that year to find myself standing alone amid the sea of Vespuccis, Ericsons, and Albuquerques. Just me, Zebulon Pike, and the cheese. If you happen to be interested at all in a dude who "discovered" a peak in the Rocky Mountains that he saw from a distance and never actually climbed, shortly before meeting his untimely death due to a magazine explosion, (that was also, coincidentally, the year I learned that "magazine" has two meanings) then enjoy this limerick about the illustrious Pike and imagine a ten-year-old girl wearing a beard made out of brown construction paper and Scotch tape reciting it.

An explorer once set out to seek 
A glimpse of the mountain range bleak 
But Zebulon Pike 
Preferred not to hike 
He just pointed and said, "That's Pike's Peak."

G. S.

Niche - Is Yours as Good as Mine?

For the longest time whenever I would have those cat-staring-out-the-window "I should buy a boat" moments, it was always "I should start a vlog." (Other variations include "I should write a screenplay" and "I should become a space pirate.")

After several attempts at a vlog and a long litany of videos of me saying stupid stuff and my webcam malfunctioning, I returned to the idea of a normal blog. Words-on-screen and such.

One of which, in fact, I have had for years. However, it is the most self-indulgent blog ever because it's just an online dream journal. The only people who are insane enough to voluntarily submit themselves to a rambling, nonsensical description of all of the dumb shit that someone's brain came up with while they were sleeping are, according to the statistics, primarily from Russia.

Regardless of the fact that I would not read it myself, I love my dream blog dearly. It's for me and my handful of Russian fans to enjoy. Maybe I am to Russia what David Hasselhoff is to Germany.

Back to the (sort of) story, one of my half-hearted New Year's resolutions other than get more sleep and stop watching shows that have laugh tracks was to keep a journal. Which I did, for about four days, in an awesome notebook made out of elephant dung that I got on Etsy. I did immediately sniff it when it came in the mail. You'd never know it was in an elephant's colon. Maybe I'll include a link here, and that can be part of my niche.

The issue now is that I need something that will make my blog unique. Like "My Drunk Kitchen" or "Hyperbole and a Half" or "Cat vs. Human" or "Books of Adam" except that I'm not an adorable lesbian or decent artist. My art skills are limited to drawing my boyfriend as a superhero or a person facing forward with their arms at their sides. My lesbian skills are limited to a party at the "Tuba House" during my time at Central during which my friend tried to find another attractive slightly-skanky woman to eat half of a Kit-Kat out of her mouth but had to settle for me (in a hoody with my high school's name on it not talking to anyone), and I consented primarily because I really wanted a Kit-Kat bar. I don't think anyone thought it was hot. She has great tits, though.

I gave weird poetry a shot. There are two more poems saved in my "Drafts" folder, a limerick about Zebulon Pike (too specific to be interesting) and a free verse titled "The Time You Saw My Butthole." Neither of which I found suitable for the public, although there was a nice parallel between a surprisingly hairy anal sphincter and the inevitable mortality of man.

I could write about my job. That's a decent option - I'm a veterinary assistant at a prominent veterinary hospital in my area. My duties range from scrubbing in on surgeries to scooping poop along the sidewalk. I spent an hour or two today nursing (via the mama dog, obviously) 14 neomastiff pups. Did more dog-nipple-pinching than I ever intended to do in my life. I have a year's worth of stories saved up, now that I think about it, lots of entertaining ones, too. Stories that range from outright potty humor to heartfelt (self-indulgent) philosophy. Much cuteness and possible pictures, too, now that I think of it.

GREAT SCOTT! I think I've got it. Welcome to my blog about being a veterinary assistant, peppered with occasional crude poetry for added spice. Prepare to laugh so hard you unintentionally release a small amount of urine, I have my niche.


Let's meet back here tomorrow for my first knee-slapper. And to all of my Russian fans out there, "На какой улице можно у вас увидеть диких белых медведей?"