Behold, My Future:

While sitting around the house this afternoon lovingly stroking my many dogs, I was overcome by a sudden and profound revelation. As I sat on the couch, innocently perusing the internet with my littlest (and fattest) dog on my lap, I stumbled across a site about the importance of spaying your cats (which is apparently very important).

However, as I do not have cats that need to be spayed, this is entirely irrelevant to my point.

What did attract my attention though, was the cheery picture of a little, old lady with her cat at the top of the page. My first reaction was to laugh -- but then, in an epiphany of horror, I looked down to the succulent, little creature on my lap and realized that this may very well be my future. But with DOGS.

Yes, it is the shocking truth.... as each day passes, I grow step by step closer to donning a fanny pack filled with dog biscuits and dressing my animals up in little sweaters to make up for the children I never had. I can already feel the effects sinking in... Last week, I let my dog sleep in the same bed as me. A few days ago, I had the sudden urge to leave my house with slippers on and curlers in my hair to take Sadie for a walk. Just today, I subconsciously found myself fighting off the desire to put my animals in a basket and take endearing Christmas photos of them to send to my extended family.

I am caught up in a losing battle, my friends. I feel that it is only a matter of time before children down the block are calling me the Crazy Dog Woman and throwing things through my windows... is that any way to treat an old lady? The world has never been fair to lonely elders like myself. Just because I like to crochet hats with ear holes for my dogs in the winter, and just because I show the neighbors my wallet-sized pet photos whenever they accidentally stumble into my garden, doesn't mean I'm an outcast. But alas... this is the life I'm destined to live...

Anyway, to illustrate the severity of my doomed fate to you, I have decided to post pictures of some charming old ladies with cats that I find to have a striking resemblance to myself. I believe these photos will prove to any non-believers that I am, as a matter of fact, truly heading down the Road of No Return.

I think these three (entirely candid) comparison pictures say quite accurately what a million words on the subject could not. I am doomed to die alone (probably smothered in my sleep with dog hair) at a premature age. With no husband or children, I will have no one but my 32 dogs to attend my funeral. On my grave, they will not be able to think of anything inspirational to write, so instead they will inscribe:

Here lies Brianna.

She didn't have many friends, but we think her dogs sort of liked her.

May God have mercy on her soul.

Buffalo buffalo buffalo.

Wow. I am constantly learning new and crazy things about the english language.... Just when I think I've seen it all, some very smart and grammatically savvy person comes along and blows my mind.

What am I talking about, you wonder...? LOOK AT THIS LINK AND BE AMAZED:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Buffalo_buffalo_Buffalo_buffalo_buffalo_buffalo_Buffalo_buffalo

Buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo.

... You see what I'm saying? It may seem like I'm just repeating the word "Buffalo" over and over again, but in reality I'm speaking in entirely cohesive and grammatically grounded sentences! Spectacular, isn't it? I've already inserted this sentence into my everyday conversations at lest 7 or 8 times since my discovery of the grammatical marvel last night. I think it blends quite easily into my casual dialect. Speaking of which, Buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo. Oh yeah, and have I mentioned that Buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo?

Because Buffalo buffalo do, as a matter of fact, buffalo Buffalo buffalo.

Remarkable.

The Very Serious Matter of Bug-Repellent Socks.

This week, I have made a startling new discovery -- one that has truly revolutionized my quality of life and shifted my perspective of the world. Now I know that my blog posts are usually lighthearted and upbeat, but this is serious, so I hope that my audience can read this post with the greatest maturity and attention. This is not a laughing matter.

Now on to my pivotal testimony:

Due to an unfortunate backup in my laundry sequencing (possibly the result of me just not doing it...), I have been suffering from an atrocious clean-sock deficit the last few days. Now any habitual sock-wearer could tell you that this situation is grave and possibly life threatening... So in light of this, I found myself a few days ago pillaging through my dad's wool, hiking socks in desperation for something clean to wear. But though I wasn't expecting it at the time, what I found amidst these bundles of hiking gear was something greater than I ever could have imagined: insect-repellent, wool socks!

What's that you say? Socks that repel insects?

YES.

They say so on the tag. Now, I didn't even know that such an ingenious invention existed until several days ago, but these socks are truly the greatest discovery since the dawn of time. I have grown fonder of them in the past few days than I ever could have dreamed. They are warm... comfy... and most of all, they protect my feet from the unwelcome hoards of insects that generally target innocent city-dwellers. Now I don't know if it's just a crazy coincidence, but I will be the first to attest that my feet have not been bitten by a single insect since my discovery of the socks three days ago. Testimonies like this simply speak for themselves. No longer will I have to walk down the plagued streets of Seattle, warding off attacks from foot-eating locusts or scorpions; my feet are protected by a thick, wooly armor that not even the greatest of bugs can penetrate!

This foot-eating bug problem has, after all, been growing in my neighborhood for years now. What began as a few rogue attacks by tropical caterpillars that escaped from the zoo, has recently grown into a foot-preying epidemic that spans all of the greater Seattle insects and daily affects the lives of countless individuals. Some bites are more or less harmless (the CIA World Fact Book states that the average Seattle resident receives between 12 and 35 bug bites on their feet a day), but others are lethal -- producing skin discoloration, seizures, or in some cases, instantaneous death.

Every day, countless numbers of innocent people fall at the hands of foot-preying bugs... The sidewalks of Seattle are littered with dead bodies -- the skeletal (and footless) remains of victims who could not ward off the swarms of malicious foot-feeders before it was too late. I pray that their eyes may be opened to the world of insect-repellent socks and all of their wooly wonders. I stumbled upon this discovery because of an innocent backup in my laundry; what began as a desperate attempt to cover my feet developed into the greatest single discovery of my life.

We do not need to live in fear any longer, America. God has given us an answer to deliver us from the lethal foot bites of killer insects, and this answer is in the form of a sacred, bug-repellent sock.

There is hope for us, after all, my friends.

REALLY now?!?

Yes, I'm not joking... this has happened twice in TWO DAYS. I'm starting to feel a little exasperated.

Athleticism.... Mmmm...

After an intensive evening of sitting in a packed stadium and watching college football with my father, all I can say is that I truly love sports with all of the blazing passion in my heart. The drunken fans yelling obscenities, the sweaty, burlesque men running around on the field, the tension of every play as the audience watches on with bated breath -- these are the moments that make life worthwhile.

And so what if the game is 4 hours long and it's midnight by the time I get home? And who cares if it's 40 degrees and windy, and my hands are so cold I can't feel them? I consider these sacrifices a blessing, if it only means that I can sit and soak up the sheer athleticism that is rising off the field in inspirational waves. Where others may find the cold, hard seats and blistery winds miserable, I find them invigorating. Such are the joys of a die-hard sports fanatic like myself!

Some people enjoy television; others like to read; but for me, there is nothing more enthralling than the act of watching tiny figures on a field try to move a ball 10 yards. The suspense of it all is almost unbearable: will they run 5 yards? Or 4? Or maybe 3.5? Every play is a mystery waiting to unfold! Whether it's a first down or a fourth, the sheer anticipation of squinting from my seat to make out the tiny ball inch across the field never seems to fade. I know it's crazy to dream, but in my wildest fantasies, I imagine heaven to be something along these lines: a never-ending football game of angels in spandex trying to run the ball 10 yards for ALL ETERNITY.... I can only dare to hope . Until I die, however, I'm afraid I will have to content myself to mere 4-hour increments of this sacred pass time. After all, my humanly body can only take so much excitement in one sitting.

Last night's game, in particular, was the stuff dreams are made of. The teams were tied the whole way through, the game went into double overtime (who cares if that means I had to freeze in my seat for a while longer?!?), and the tension in the stadium was so thick, you could cut it with a bread knife. And though I may be lying in bed with a throbbing headache at the moment (no doubt due the frigid cold I endured last night for FOUR HOURS), I cannot help but muse about my undying affection for all things sports-related. I do love football more than almost everything in the world, after all... Child slavery, drug addictions, the Holocaust -- in my humble opinion, football surpasses all of these things by great leaps and bounds!

As a wise man once told me, every moment spent NOT watching sports, is a moment of your life wasted away... How true these words ring out in my life! A day without sports is like a day without the sun. A Saturday without football is like a Saturday without food, clothing, shelter, friends, or even sanity. A minute spent reflecting on something other than my crazed love for athleticism is like a minute in the life of a prisoner whose head is being forcibly held under water until he slowly loses consciousness, deprived of the stuff that gives him life.... After all, a life without sports is really no life at all.

How Celebrities Make Ordering Coffee Very Difficult.

This happens way too often for it to be funny any more.....

I Eat Stress for Breakfast

To my beloved fans and admirers:

I have been absent from my poor blog for some time now due to school, and I am hoping that not too many of you have gone physically mad whilst waiting with bated breath this last week for me to post something brilliant. I also hope that no more than a couple have turned to alcohol or drugs to fill the gaping void in their hearts where my habitual blog used to reside, and I sincerely wish that no one has been mauled by a mountain lion recently while out for a innocent hike (note: that last one is unrelated to my audience in particular, but it would still be a tragic misfortune, nonetheless...)

Anyway, as I am sure you all know, my love for blogging to the world runs deeper than many deep things, and my absence this last week has pained me greatly. But while you all have been loyally refreshing your computer screens every 3 minutes or so (in hopes of a new blog post) and burning incense on your Brianna-themed shrines, I have been off in the grand world of college doing many collegy type things. Though I could be sitting around merrily with my cup of coffee and journal as I had grown so accustomed to this last summer, I now like to spend my time doing worthwhile things like fighting off panic attacks and drowning in stress-induced fits of tears: my two newest hobbies!

And though schooling has caused my personal hygiene to take a dramatic plunge for the worse, and though I spend a great deal of time hunched over my computer in a dark room like a sad hermit, I am content. My skin may turn milky white for lack of exposer to sunlight, I might develop a bad habit of speaking to my imaginary mice friends as a result of my withdrawal from society (and my love of mice), and I may even start picking up stress-induced addictions like biting my fingernails or drooling a lot or maybe eating dead pheasants that I find in the street, but I suppose these are sacrifices I will have to take for a higher education.

A stressful lifestyle calls to me, but on the bright side, I am an Olympic gold medalist in the division of eating stress for breakfast! Or... um... something along those lines.

Speaking of which, I really am supposed to be doing homework right now, so I should probably wrap this rambling and rather pointless blog post up and go hit the books. That would be the wise thing to do. But then again, I should probably also shower and stop shooting down all the pheasants that fly by my house and eating them raw, but I'm not sure that that's going to actually happen. Habits are hard to break, after all... but in the world of college, anything is possible!

Well, I'm off to go wage war against the armies of homework that are viciously attacking my subconscious now.... Wish me luck, my friends.

Yours truly,

Brianna.

Why Birds are Always Better Dead.

While researching practical uses for dead birds this morning, I stumbled across several inspirational ideas. You see, I have been petitioning the death of our pet birds to my parents for some time now, but (for some reason beyond my understanding) they have routinely insisted that I lay down my pitchfork and knife to let the evil little creatures live. But although my attempts at murder thus far have been thwarted, I have not given up hope that one day I will find a reason convincing enough that even my unreasonable parents will agree that the birds are better off dead.

And today, my friends, is that day. I have found a use for killing my insipid pet birds that is so practical, even the bird-loving crazies I live with will have to admit that death is their best option.

You see, I plan to slaughter my pet birds.... in the name of fashion.

Fashion, you ask? Yes, indeed! I was first inspired to look into this idea after a particularly thought-provoking art history class several days ago. You see, while analyzing images of 18th century women, my very wise professor mentioned in an off-hand sort of way that back in the day it was very stylish and trendy to wear dead birds in one's hair. This is coming from an era where the bigger and more ornate a hairstyle is, the better. In other words, hair that is 3-feet tall is nice, but hair that is 3-feet tall with dead birds in it is just that much more impressive!

To illustrate my point, please view this lovely drawing of a classy yet sensible-looking lady with a boat in her hair:

Isn't she elegant? And how much more so would she be if she also had three or four dead, stuffed finches clipped to her curls! According to 18th century fashion, tall buns and dead birds were the way to go. Just ask any aristocratic, 200(+) year-old woman, and I am sure she would whole-heartedly back me up.

Now in light of these obviously timeless fashion trends, I propose the death of my three pet birds (and their loud, messy, violent ways) in favor of a new ornate hair piece for my revitalization of this 18th century look! Though my pet birds may be lovable and docile creatures (... or wait... just kidding...), even the densest and least-educated fool can see that the most sensible thing to do in this situation is to slaughter them for the sake of my ostentatious new hair-du. It is clear what should be done.

Anyway, I am sure my dear family will have no problem with this newest plot, so I expect to start spraying my hair white and wearing it 4-feet tall (complete with dead birds, flowers, and perhaps a miniature cruise ship or two) in the very near future. I love my birds deeply (actually... just kidding again...), but there are some sacrifices that just must be made-- especially for important matters like my 18th century hair decor!

There is always a sensible excuse for slaughter if you look hard enough, and in light of my fervent desire to model myself after aristocratic, European women of the 1700's, I really see no way around the massacre....

I shall prepare my knives and taxidermy materials immediately.

Cheers!

God Bless the Pigeons.

Hello, world!

I am taking a break from my intensive studies to instead write this informative post about pigeons. It is very urgent and must be done immediately, so I guess my homework will have to wait. Anyway.... Please enjoy!

To begin, this is a pigeon:

Beautiful isn't it?

Now, here is a realistic picture of a pigeon that I drew:

It is very realistic... and also a pigeon.

And here is the word "Pigeon" translated into several everyday languages... (I thought this might be useful, in case you are out on the streets and want to warn a foreigner about a pigeon headed in their direction):

Hebrew: יונה

Danish: Duer

Persian (!!!): ساده‌ وگول‌ خور

Serbian: Golub

Also... here is the diagrammed form of the sentence "Pigeons are super" (for those of you grammar buffs like myself) :

And here is a word search that I just made using a Word Search maker. If anyone out there is a word search enthusiast, I challenge you to find ALL 15 words.

I LOVE THE PIGEONS!!

E N P O P O E N N E E I P I I O O N O E E I P I G E O N G E G I P I G E O N P O E P P I G E O N I I N I P I G E O N G I N G P I G E O N E O E E P I G E O N O O G O P I E N O N N N G N P N I N G N O P
Words to Find: pigeon pigeon pigeon pigeon pigeon pigeon pigeon pigeon pigeon pigeon pigeon pigeon pigeon pigeon pigeon

Anyway.... I that is all I have to say about pigeons, so... um..... I think I might get back to my homework now.... you know.....

I hope this post has made everyone love pigeons just a little bit more.