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I killed a man in Reno.

I mean, I didn’t really kill a man in Reno. But I’m working on my alibi for as to why it looks like I was attacked by an angry kitten.

I went to soccer tonight with every intention of playing, dying, then coming home, posting a video, winning a bet and then going to sleep. This was not in the cards.

I’m on the field. A guy is coming at me with the ball. At the last second, he turns and goes into me with his shoulder. His shoulder, full force into my face. I fly off my feet, like I always do and land. My face hurts.

I yell things.

Poof would later tell me I went down in a puddle of fucks.

The guy keeps going but the ref blows the whistle.

“I didn’t even hit her!”

I yell more things. I’m bleeding.

I run off the field.

The front desk staff MacGyver‘s an ice pack for me and some ladies on the bench debate if I need stitches.

Nobody makes me bleed my own blood.

Nobody makes me bleed my own blood. Photo courtesy to Poof, because she wanted the blood in the picture.

So, the game ends, and I tell everyone and their mother about my lip. And that’s about when I decide this is much more important than a fitted sheet.

Reaction 1. Poof, from her perspective.

Reaction 2. Soccer v. Hockey


Hockey Friend: You’re so dramatic. Hockey players cut their lips all the time and go back and play.

Me: It wouldn’t stop bleeding!

Hockey Friend: You’re so dramatic!


Reaction 3. TwitterVerse.

Reaction 4. L.A. converses with her father.

Me: Hey Dad.

Dad: You’re home.

Me: Yup.

Dad: OH! You’ve got a brute.

Me: Yup.

Dad: …well, I’m sorry.

Me: Thanks.

Dad: Who’d you piss off?

*Update: upon waking up this morning, the cut had not healed, but instead had decided to bleed all over my bed. It was like waking up in a horror movie. So, I headed to an urgent care, and the old man doctor glued my lip together, so it wouldn’t keep re-opening. Then he warned me to “limit my mouth actions.”

*Update Two: upon the re-hashing of the tale with Poof, the following discussion happened.

Blood and words


So, you owe a thank you to Poof for the painting with the words, to match my painting my tale with my blood. HashTag. BloodBrothers.

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[I’m on a] Contact High

When I was younger, I insisted that I would never, ever, ever, ever, ever*get glasses. I had great vision. For that matter, I swore I would never get braces either.

2000. Yeah. I’ve got braces AND glasses. I also am clad entirely in DKNY and am wearing a hemp necklace. NOT PICTURED: GAP Flare cargo pockets khakis. Yeah. BAMF.

Of course, I probably jinxed myself by saying that and ended up with glasses. And braces. For years and years. Granted, my eyes are not that bad, but the point is, that I did need glasses. When I was younger, I would use them for reading and classes, but as I got older, I tended to just use them for everything. It’s easier that way.

Except when playing soccer.

I’ve been playing soccer since I was 11, before I needed glasses, and kept playing (minus the odd year off) until now, where I play on this rec league team with Poof and co, and I do need glasses. Case in point? Where we played a navy blue team last week and my team is more of a royal blue. I’m not great to begin with, so you can imagine that I’m terrible without glasses at all**.

This is about how everyone looks to me on the field too. The team, back in ’09.

And thus, I finally caved, since I’m off the parental insurance in a year and a half, since the world is blurry when I don’t wear glasses, and since Poof constantly teases me for wearing my sunglasses over my real glasses.

I got the contacts.

A big reason I never got contacts was because I’m really terrible at pain. I got five stitches once, and thought I was dying. The thought of putting things in my eyes where I could be potentially poking my own eyeball? Not good. Big fear.

Thus, when I was at the eye doctor’s, trying to put these things in by myself, it was no easy feat. After about the third or fourth try, I started cracking jokes in an attempt to speed up the process. It didn’t help the contacts get in any faster, but the chick helping me seemed to find it amusing.

Me: They should just invent a machine to put contacts in for you.

Her: I feel like that would be more painful. You ALMOST had it this [9023841] time around.

Me: It couldn’t be more painful than you watching this.

Her: You’ve got a point.


Me: This just isn’t going to happen. My eyes won’t open any wider.

Her: Sure they will, just pull on your eyelid.

Me: No, seriously. They’re Asian eyes.

Her: …I know I shouldn’t laugh at that.

In the end, yes, the contacts went in.

Two hours after I managed to put the contacts in:


Poof: It’s going to get hard to get used to you without glasses.

Me: If I’m getting used to putting them in, you have to get used to seeing me with them in. This is so traumatizing though. I might write a blog about it.

Poof: Will you call it contact high?


No more blurry in 2k12! Except this picture is kinda blurry. Maybe the iPhone5 comes with contacts.

*I hope that boy marries Taylor Swift so she quits writing bad break up songs. This song came on Sirius four times while I wrote this post.

**I played soccer with contacts in. It’s official. I’m still not much good.


Bikini Season: codename, self conscious females arise

Yesterday marked the beginning of outdoor soccer. Which should be a great thing, right? It means being outside in the sun, getting tan while you run, playing for longer…all good things, yes? Well, outdoor soccer yesterday taught me one thing yesterday:

This speaks for itself.

Before anyone starts giving me grief, I know I am thin. But there is a big difference between being thin and being in shape. And I admit it:

I am so out of shape.

It’s funny. I’ve been pretty active my whole life. I’ve been long distance biking since I was 11. Playing soccer since 6th grade.  Just constantly moving. But the older I get, the harder it is to make time for it, and now all of sudden…I have podge. And I hates the podge. Because you know what comes along with outdoor soccer?

Summer. Namely, bikini season.

I downright refuse to get to the point where I can’t wear a bikini and be okay with myself. And I’m scared I’m getting to the point where I can’t. Sure, it might just be me being self conscious about my body image, but honestly, who isn’t self conscious about at least some part of their body?

My infamous “Flamingo Pose” Left is pre baby. Center and right are post baby. Damn the fact that you can’t stay young forever.

I want to say that I’m going to go get the latest issue of Cosmo, where they’re sure to have some sort of “Get Better Abs in Two Weeks” sort of feature. I’ll cut out the article, stick it to my fridge, and diligently work out until my abs are in better shape, my body is in better shape, and most of all, I feel better about how I look.

But let’s face facts. That’s a lie.

I’m terrible at working out. Aviator and I had this discussion when we went to the gym a couple times. Working out is harder on your own. Why? Because no one is holding you accountable. No one is going to come up to you and tell you that you have to do this next set of crunches, or run for another mile, or whatnot.

That’s why soccer is good for me, even if I suck, even if I get tired, both of which usually happen — someone is holding me accountable. From time to time, that someone is yelling at me, but hell, at least I’m doing something active.

The same story is true for long distance biking. My family has gone on the Michigander bike tour for the past two years — this will be our third year this summer. You know what happens if you decide you can’t bike anymore? You’re stuck. Possibly in the middle of nowhere. Possibly with nothing to eat or drink but half a water bottle and some salt and vinegar peanuts (this actually happened to me once). You absolutely have to keep going until you reach your destination, or else you’re screwed*. That’ll hold you accountable.

My Dad and I on the Michigander last year. Photo Courtesy to MichTrails on PhotoBucket.

So, now…it’s bikini season.What keeps you working out? Workout buddy? Body Image? Someone come hold me accountable, so I can head to Grand Haven feeling good.

*Just an FYI. I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t get screwed and left in the middle of nowhere on the Michigander. I think the SAG Wagons would pick you up.  But normally on a bike trip on your own? Seriously. Screwed.