The Tinder Diaries: I'm Gonna Die Alone

Have you ever suddenly realized how incredibly picky you are?  I downloaded Tinder out of sheer curiosity, and found myself going "Named Steve/Stephen/Steven. Pass", "Does not use punctuation. Pass", "Poses with car/fish/dead deer. Pass".

I started this as a Facebook post, but realized that it would be a very long list of things I pass on in the Tinder app.  So, I came here to give you that list.  Enjoy!

I pass on all these things:

• Packers fans.  You're all obnoxious.
• People who tailgate at college sporting events.  Especially if you're out of college (which doesn't even apply here, because you're too young for me, bro) or didn't even go to that school.
• People my age or younger.  I just can't with twentysomethings.
• Redheads.  I know, I know. "But Lizzy, you're a redhead!"  I'm just not into gingers. I'm sure there are loads of dude who aren't into pink-skinned chubbos like myself.  Eye of the beholder, man.
• Neck tattoos.  Nothing says, "I'll never have a decent job" like shitty neck tattoos.
• Ill-fitting suits.  I mean, why the fuck would you purchase such an expensive outfit if you're not going to spend a little more to get the motherfucker tailored?
• Lack of facial hair.  I like Lumbersexuals.  MEN have beards. That is all.
• People with pictures of far-flung locales.  I don't give two shits about how "worldly" you think you are, because you've had the chance/means to travel.
• Gym or shirtless selfies.  No.  I'd rather have a fatty like me than a beefcake. You vain bitch.
• People who don't have bios. Or even worse, their bios say "I am who I am" or "Just ask me".  You clearly don't know how Tinder works.  We use the bios to find out if we like you just a little. 
• Dudes who don't contact me first.  Maybe this is a personal thing, but if you don't have the balls to make the first move, then move along.  That's your job, man.
• People named David. For obvious reasons.
• People who use letters and numbers to replace actual words.  Keep in mind here that my discovery preferences are set to people over the age of 29.  Not than ANYONE should be doing this, but especially people who didn't actually grow up using "txt speak".
• Misogynist red flags.  Obviously.
• Pick-up trucks.  #Compensating.
• Group photos.
• Wedding photos.  Of their own wedding.
• (Hopefully) Ex-girlfriend photos.
• Guns.  I fully support the Second Amendment and all, but you do not need an assault rifle for your dating profile picture.
•  Photos of dead deer/fish.  I'm especially indoorsy. Hunting for sport appalls me. Just no.

I'm fairly sure there are more reasons, but now there's "no one new around" me on this stupid app.  Why did I even download it?

I have realized what I have become, and I am going to die alone.

Grudges and Crushes Do Nobody Any Good

I'm really slacking on this blog-writing thing, aren't I?   First, let me say that this one has been with me for all of five minutes, but I really had to get it out.  Even with almost slicing off my thumb earlier today (stitches, I'm fine.  Well, at least will be when Walgreens gets my damn 'scrip in.). 

Grudges and crushes.  We've all had them.  The guy who so epicly broke your heart that you wished only suffering on him forever (I'm not Dolly Parton and I DON'T wish you love.  I'm Davey Havok, and I hope you suffer.) to that super cute dude who sits across from you at work. 

Am I getting a little to specific here?  Feel free to fill in whatever you need to.  Not everyone has a #BroOfMyDreams so close and yet so, so far away.  I'm not your "type", I get it.  Never stop looking pretty.

Anyway, the point of this who post is letting things go.   Thanks, Buzzfeed! 




But not just grudges and crushes.  Disappointment, anger, terrible relationships, and basically all the other negative stuff that you make up in your mind when you're staring at your ceiling just before you fall asleep.  The adult version of the boogeyman in the closet.  I guess as we grow up those boogeymen die, and thus skeletons.

But since I'm already on a tangent about crushes, I'm going to spread that bitch thin.  Again, fill in whatever you need to.  Please, Mad Libs my post.  I don't mind.

Sixteen Candles said it best. "That's why they call them crushes. If they were easy, they'd call 'em something else."  It might be these kind of things that help you build character.  Aren't broken hearts (from real or imaginary suitors) supposed to do that? Give you thicker skin and a harder heart?  Still waiting for both of those.  Maybe I'll always be a heart-on-my-sleeve kind of girl.  If that doesn't make me your fucking "type", then move along.  But still, look pretty.

I think I'm just going in circles.  The ebb and flow of hope.  I want to let go, but these things are like a screaming child holding on to the door jamb when he doesn't want to go home quite yet.  I want to let go, something makes me want to stay in the cozy womb of the crush.  My mind says "fool, forget that shit", my heart says "don't let go-oh-oh-oh".

So, if they do no one any good (trust me, they do not do anyone any good.  Did you not read the title??), why do we have them?  Humans are weird.

If you read my blog on the reg (and you should,   I'm awesome), then you know that this was built for me to grow as a person and as a writer.  I don't have the answers to much.  So, if you know the foolproof way of getting rid of these pesky grudges and crushes, that'd be good.  

Or maybe they're too fun to lose.  Like being on top of that first rollercoaster hill.  Staring down to the bottom, just knowing you're going to plummet.  Meh.  I'd rather never thrill-seek again than not be your motherfucking "type".

SONG DUMP!

Just a random collection of songs I'm super into right meow.  Enjoy!


I love this song, and it's really out of the realm of songs that I consider even listenable.   Also, I feel like I'm watching a ModCloth ad.
I

The next person who calls AFI "emo" gets cut.  Also, the entirely of the album Burials, and a few other select AFI songs dominate my Top 20 right now.  #DaveyHavokismyLover


White Boy Soul.  English White Boy Soul.



Good LAWD, I love this song. 


Aaaand just because.  Reasons.  Oh, you don't like the Misfits?  You're dead to me.

Autumn is for Lovers

I'm not a Summer girl. Not even close.  Here in Iowa, the summer can be just unbearable.  Hot, humid days make me want to stay inside with my air conditioning.  Yes, it's beautiful outside.  Yes, the sun is shining.  But no, I don't like it.

Autumn, now that's my jam.  Bring on the cardigans and corduroy. Bring on the pumpkin spice everything and rich, hearty chili.  The changing leaves, the brisk crispness of the air.  I love it all. 

I can't wait to go to apple orchards and pumpkin patches. I can't wait for Beggar's Night, even though I'm an adult and I have to work.  I can't wait for Halloween parties and awesome costumes.

Fun Fact: Both Mogs were born in October, almost exactly one year apart. 

I'm already scouring online for cords and cardis. I'm already looking forward to taking the AC unit out of my window and sleeping with the windows open.  I'm definitely looking forward to not needing to mow my lawn!

I'm looking forward to Thanksgiving!  Definitely the best of all American holidays. 

I'm looking forward to regular season NFL games (Go Lions! Defend the Den!).

I can't wait for cider and hot cocoa.

Bring it on, Autumn.  I'm waiting for you!

Binge Watching and Crochet

Confession:  I've lived in my house since October or November of 2013, and I only recently got internet installed.  In July.

Before then, I was "borrowing" a neighbor's WiFi.  Frankly, if you don't put a password on it, you're asking people to use it.  I watched Dexter.  All of it, in a few weeks.  And I thought that was excessive.  Dexter has eight seasons, 96 total episodes.  At 50 minutes each, I spent 80 hours watching serial killing. 

Since having the internet installed, my binge watching has been... excessively excessive?  I've watched:

• Five seasons of Top Chef (not the first one, Katie Lee Joel is annoying.),  16 episodes per season, approximately 45 minutes each. 60 hours.
• All eight seasons of Weeds.  109 episodes at approximately 28 minutes each.  51 hours.
• All three seasons of Louie currently available on Netflix. 40 episodes at approximately 20 minutes each.  13 hours.
• All five seasons of Breaking Bad. 62 episodes at approximately 45 minutes each. 46 hours.
• Season three of Scandal. 18 episodes, 45 minutes each. 13 hours.
• Two episodes of Portlandia, season three.  45 minutes.
• Ten episodes of Say Yes to the Dress, season one.  20 minutes each, 3 hours.
• American Psycho. 1 hour, 41 minutes.
• Thelma and Louise. 2 hours, 9 minutes.
• Three TED Talks. 55 minutes
• The Mighty Ducks. 1 hour, 45 minutes.
• Four episodes of The X Files (my next binge watching target.  I feel like I was too young to appreciate it when it was on, and since Netflix has all seasons, I'm making the commitment now.) 45 minutes each, 3 hours.

That's about 197 hours of Netflix and Hulu Plus watched since July 15th.  Not even a full month.  There are 720 hours in a month.  Yeah, I have a problem.

To be fair, though, I do stuff while I'm watching TV.  Crochet a lot.  I'm working on a blanket for a soon-to-be born Miss Aria Jones.  I actually had to start over, but I'll have it done before she's born.  In about a week.  Hopefully.

I also do dishes, laundry, cook, read emails (and other internet based things), organize my crochet basket.  Mostly crochet.  But I do things that are moderately productive.  I do mini "workouts" while watching, too.  I write this blog!

But mostly, I have a problem.  If I read that much, I'd be finished with The Magicians and probably The Magician King.  I used to read that much.

So with a mog on either side of me on my new couch, I'm sitting here watching The X Files.  Join me?  No?  That's okay, too.

I can't wait for the Fall TV Season to start.  New Scandal!  And I can't wait to see what's in store for Huckleberry Quinn.  New Revenge! New Grey's Anatomy!

Oh, and there are a slew of movies coming to Netflix this month.  Yay! More bingeing.

Magical Tattoo of my Dreams

I've been pretty stuck on what to write here.

I asked my lovely Facebook Friends to give me a topic.  And I so received!   What tattoo, if free and licked on by kittens, would I want.  And why.

First, licked on by kittens (please get the reference!) because I am TERRIFIED of needles.  Butterfly needles make me cry.  Like a little baby. Which is the primary reason I don't have any tattoos.  That, and I'm pretty indecisive. 

I do, however, have one idea that's been with me for a while.  A wonderful, magical idea.  That's an homage to Harry Potter. 

Most of you know my love for HP.  I'm a total nerd, and I don't care who knows it.  The Harry Potter series is like a patronus charm for the dementors in my life.  So, it's only natural that if I ever get a tattoo, it'll be Harry Potter based. 

Not a lightning bolt or even a Deathly Hallows sign.  No, I'd have an owl.  Delivering my letter.  A massive chest piece of a barn owl in flight, wings stretching from shoulder to shoulder, my Salem letter clutched in one claw.  Salem School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.  I'm not European, so obviously I wouldn't have gone to Hogwarts. 

 



It would done in black and gray.  I love the aesthetic of black and gray, just so seemingly simple.  But not at all.  And it would have green eyes.  Another homage to the books, something the movies couldn't do.  

I also love simplistic versions of the Voldemort's Horcruxes, themselves.  Professor Quirrell (his soul, anyway), Tom Riddle's Diary, Marvolo Gaunt's Ring, Salazar Slytherin's Locket, Helga Hufflepuff's Cup, Rowena Ravenclaw's Diadem, and finally Harry Potter himself.  A small symbol to represent the mission through each year of the series.

Regarding the artist, I don't know who I'd choose.  I don't know any, personally.  What I do know, is they'd better be proficient in kitten-licked ink.

On Disappointment

"Hard not to feel just a little bit disappointed and passed over."

I don't handle rejection well.  Something I'm going to have to get over if I really intend to finish writing my novel and then seek to publish it.  I take it too personally, whether it's professionally or romantically.  It just breaks my heart. Every. Single. Time.  I can't seem to separate myself from the disappointment of not being perfect for everything I attempt.

So I don't.  I don't put myself out there often, because the very notion of rejection is crippling.

I applied for a job that I'm qualified to do in my sleep.  Overall, the hiring supervisor advised that the job would be given to either me or a former teammate of mine.  She got the job.  I'm in no way angry about her getting it, she deserves it.  I'm really happy that she's getting out of the service center.  I just feel stuck, and I have for a very long time.

So, not getting this job was a massive, crushing blow.  Oh, and they haven't even bothered to tell me that I'm not the one getting the job.  I learned from asking her if she had heard anything yet.  They were supposed to tell us three days ago.

This is a fresh wound for me.  Seriously, I wrote most of this between calls on scraps of paper shortly after learning that I'd been passed over.  Fuck. Me.

It's been a whole-Misfits-catalog kind of day.

When I started my job four years ago, it was an entirely different life that I was leading.  I had the intention to move to Portland, OR with a job waiting for me at the center there.  About a year later, that center closed.  Two moves, several job rejections, and one terrible break up later, here I am. I've let go of the idea that move to Portland is at all a possibility or would make a difference in my life. Disappointment would follow.

I just feel stuck.  Really, really stuck.  I feel like I'm going to live and die in the same small city that I was born in.  The town that I both love and despise.  I do see the melodrama in taking a job rejection to rejection from the rest of the world.  That's how I handle disappointment. 

A cloud so dark and thick and ominous, that I don't see how the sun will ever shine again.  Disappointment apocalypse.

Today, I am the embodiment of Forever Alone.  I get the guts to say how I feel, but that hanging shadow of disappointment is never too far way.  I chicken out.  I want to say everything, but I can't.  Because I can't take another disappointment just yet.

I am Not a Tattooed Dream Girl

This is just me airing how I feel about an assumption that I've made up, and now can't get away from.

I am not this girl.  I will never be this girl. Radeo Suicide is unconventionally gorgeous.  I feel like in the kind of life that I want, she is ideal.  We'll talk about the Suicide Girls later.  This is about me.

 



This is about who I thought I'd be.  A tattooed dream girl.  I thought, as an angsty teenager, that I'd grow up and be some kind of an artist.  Some kind of a girl who'd defy the norms and somehow earn the love and attention (because that's what's really important, right? No. It's not) that I deserve.  That tattooed girl is who I am inside my chubby body.  It's who I long to be.

 

So here I am, 28 years old and still holding on to the disgusting idea that I'm not worth the attention of any of my objects of desire because I can't be the person I want to be.  Though, if I showed up anywhere with victory rolls and cherry lips, I'd feel like a fucking poser. Please never let me say the word "poser" again. 

 

I admire those girls, because they had the courage to be themselves. If they are being themselves.  They're seen as the cool girls.  But really, do "cool girls" exist?  I watch football and actually know what's going on, I read for fun, I can hold deep conversations about things other than celebrities and fashion.  Doesn't that make me "cool" enough?  I can pretend to be laid back, but I'm a control freak. Sorry.  Not really.

 

If I had tattoos, if I had black hair, if I had Dita von Teese's pale skin, would I then be enough?  That to me, is ideal.  I want to be vampire skinned. But I'm pink.  I'm piggy fucking pink, and there's not a damned thing I can do about it.  I want to look amazing with jet black hair, but I don't. 

 

What now?  I'm hoping one day to accept that this body is who I am.   Except for extensive surgery, I can never be like Radeo Suicide or Dita von Teese.  That kills me.  I can't be the girl you see in the front row of the indie rock show that all the boys-in-bands adore.  The groupie you can't have.

 

This is really about letting go of ideals.  This is really about me finding love in myself.  It's hard.  Really hard for me.  I hope that I'm not the only one who feels like this.  Like you'll never love me, because I'm not this girl.  I am me.  And really, that's all that I have to offer.  

Random Post: Secret Celebrity Crushes

I'm in the middle of yet another binge marathon.  Having just finished Breaking Bad (seriously, guys), Weeds was recommended to me.  I just found out that the dude who is Huck in Scandal is also Guillermo in Weeds (Guillermo Diaz), and I was half inspired by seeing an actor who is just so perfect for one role playing quite another.  The other half was a quick Google search of "Secret Celebrity Crushes".  The "secrets" that people are confessing, they're not so secret.  These people are attractive.  Not just subjectively, but Johnny Depp and Orlando Bloom (the sole reasons I watch Pirates of the Caribbean beyond the first film) aren't exactly surprises.

I decided to air my secret celebrity crush dirty laundry.  Because I'm transparent that way.  This will definitely expose my weird ass taste in dudes.  I'm okay with that.  Again, I'm transparent.

                                         Sam Rockwell

 
 

 

 



Let's choose to ignore the teeth he had to wear as "Wild Bill" Wharton in The Green Mile.  Sam Rockwell chooses roles that are unique, and frankly, fucking bad ass.  Choke and Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.  Yes. All of it.  Again, ignore those fucking teeth.












                                                Scandal's Huck

Okay, understand me here.   Huck is crazy.  Batshit, PTSD, homeless crazy.  At some point in Season Three, he finds sexual excitement in torturing the woman he's secretly in love with.  That's kind of hot.  Hear me out.  He's dangerous.  He's raw.  He knows how to hack the Pentagon network and pull out someone's teeth like pulling a knife out of soft butter.   Don't judge me, huh?




                                                     Mark Ruffalo

Hello, Dr. Banner.  Matt Flamhaff.  Mark Ruffalo gets better with age.  This one isn't quite a secret or a surprise, I suppose. But another dude who isn't conventionally attractive that is completely gorgeous to me.



                                                  

                                             Harry Styles

     

  

  
   Something is seriously wrong with me.  This dude is probably a fucking douche.  And he can't write his own music.  Whatever.  THOSE DIMPLES





                                      Louis CK

Louis CK is hilarious.  Hilariously sexy? Sexily hilarious?  I don't know.

 

 

                                                    

     Kevin Spacey



 



Because, you know, Kevin Spacey.

 

 

 

 

And boys and girls, that's all you're getting out of me today!  Never you mind that I offered these up freely.   Please comment below (I adore comments!) and tell me who YOUR secret celebrity crushes are!

 

 

 

 

 

 



For the Love of Mugs

As I've previously mentioned, I have a small mug collection.  So, here it is!



Denver Zoo, August 2012

How to Live Alone

I've lived alone for almost a year, now. I guess, I lived in my shitty Sherman Hill slum for about four months. Six years ago. You know, The Navarre.  I didn't have a refrigerator for most of the time, but my landlord never came to collect rent.  I guess that's balanced.

Alone again, I am the most free I've ever been.  I can not wear pants all day.  A freedom I most definitely take advantage of, except when taking The Mogs outside.  I'm guessing the neighbors won't like that too much.

So, since I'm such a pro at living solo, I came up with some handy tips:

• Don't be afraid to sing.  Loud.  Like you're Taylor Swift at a sold out show.  To Taylor Swift.  Who's judging you?  You can go back to loving The Misfits in a few minutes.  Right now, it's Sparks Fly. Motherfuckers.
• Don't keep a shameful house.  If you have to have someone stand outside so you have hurriedly throw away your micro-meal boxes and disguise your dirty dishes, you aren't going to have many friends.  I'll admit to maybe not being the neatest person in the world, but I do occasionally do the dishes. 
• Do keep more than beer in your fridge.  The first grocery items I places in my new home's fridge were both apple and strawberry ciders.  That was it.  I don't think I used a plate or fork for a month.  The pizza guy was my bestie for that first very lonely month.
• Don't drink TOO much.  Remember that there's no one to hold your hair back when you're puking or help you take your dogs outside.  This is really more my own rule, you can ignore it if you don't have dogs or hair to hold back when you're puking.
• Do binge watch.  Who the fuck are you waiting for?  Watch the SHIT out that series you've been putting off.  I just devoured Breaking Bad in a week. A WEEK!  Because I can. Right now, Weeds.  I'm the boss of my TV and I thoroughly enjoy it.
• Do decorate. Justin Bieber poster?  I'll judge the fuck out of you, but it's your house. 

Living alone is awesome.  I don't have cups, I have my amazing mug collection.  I didn't have a couch for a REEALLLY long time.  Which sucked, but I love the one I have now.  You get to buy the food you want without worried about someone else eating it or complaining about it.

Any more tips?  What do YOU think is awesome about living alone?

There Will Never Be Another Beyonce

I had an appointment with my doctor today, ultimately cancelled. On my way home, I absent-mindedly listened to the radio.  Something I rarely do, opting for the song I've selected for my Spotify account instead, is listen to the radio.  Especially Top 40 stations, but today I just didn't care.  So I drove while KISS 107.5 warbled out its Charli XCX and Demi Lovato.  And I wondered to myself, when did we begin to accept mediocrity as talent?

The answer to that question is Britney Spears.


In 1999, the little Southern tart, with her belly shirts and pretty face stormed airwaves and apparently the hearts of Americans.  And started a trend.  One in which you don't need any discernible talent, just a pretty face and toned tummy.  And one hell of a production team.

At the same time, Destiny's Child was also spouting about "places I ain't ever been" and "pay my bills" in a fashion (so to speak, see The House of Dereon") that was urban and relatable.  I guess.  From Destiny's Child grew the superstar and Goddess named Beyoncé.


Beyoncé's a powerhouse. The last true, talented star we will probably ever see.  Because in the reign of mediocrity, sex sells.  And Beyoncé sells enough sex to liberate even the most ridged of zippers. Also, that voice.

From Britney Spears grew an age of young girls who sell their bodies and nothing else.  We now have Charli XCX, Demi Lovato, Selena Gomez, Ariana Grande, Katy Perry, Ke$ha.  Gorgeous women, but couldn't out talent a singing goat. 

It's not just the ladies who are repping for mediocrity.   Avicii, Justin Beiber, Austin Mahone (who's so forgettable, I thought his name was Kyle), Pitbull.  If you have abs and a pretty face, I guess the rule goes for both sexes.

My point is that in this era where laptops and tablets are considered legitimate musical instruments, we've lost something.  We've lost that soul that used to be so abundant.  We lost that MoTown soul that was undeniable and pure.  Today, if you can Autotune it, it sells. 

There are the few bright spots, shining beacons of talent that make me hopeful for the future of music.  However, with the current trend, it seems that the soul that was once thrived inside each song will die. 

Rebecca Black will be a Grammy winner one day.

P.S. - If someone could get Ariana Grande to stop fucking shouting, that one song wouldn't be quite as terrible.

P.S.S - If someone could get P!nk to stop writing incredibly stupid songs, I'd love her.  What a voice on that woman.
Also, just for fun:

I Get You, Miley Cyrus.

Totally ignoring the VMA performance, since it included Robin Thicke (read about my hatred here ), I get Miley Cyrus. 

I mean, no one's saying "Oh look Robin Thicke looked like a less attractive version of Beetlejuice and rubbed his clothed wiener on a barely legal girl".  They're all calling out the newly minted woman who's finding out who she is and where her career is really going.

Being 20 is terrifying.  You're a grown up with grown up responsibilities and freedom.  Imagine having that with all of the world watching you and a set of parents who are a spectacle themselves.  Really. 

I mean, there are people who have handled her situation with more class, but there are people who don't have that kind of notoriety who have handled it with much less. 

Mostly I really want to write this post, because her song "Wrecking Ball" made me cry today.  I feel you, Miley.  I could totally hug you, because you clearly need it.

Peace the Fuck Out, Thought Catalog

I used to be a regular reader of Thought Catalog.  As collection of essays and musing from twentysomethings, it was a way to feel connected with others in my generation.  I used to sit up in my bed, lights off well into the night to laugh and sometimes cry about the truths I'd felt right in front of me.

That was until I found a Pro-Ana piece titled I Love My Eating Disorder.  With no preface that the site does not condone the behavior, it rambles on about how men love "skinny women" and the only way to be adored is to be "skinny".  "As a woman, if you want to have a great job and a great boyfriend, you have to be hot."  It's incredibly sad. 

I am absolutely one to promote self-love.  And this piece, is the absolute opposite of that.  I, with my extra 60 pounds and my anxiety,  am trying to practice loving me.  In the immortal words of RuPaul, if you can't love yourself, how the hell you gonna love anyone else?  I'm trying to love my body with its bumps and puckers, my soul with its imperfections, and my heart even when it's broken.  I bought a dress this year.  I haven't worn a dress in seven years.  But I bought it, and I wore it.  And I still wear the shit out of that dress.  Because it makes me feel beautiful.  Because I feel that way, not because I need validation from someone else to do so.

I feel sorry for this girl, and others like her in the Pro-Ana community.  Not pity, but genuine hurt for them.  I know what it's like to hate yourself.  I know what it's like to have body dysmorphia, anxiety that people are look at your for your fat.  I know what it's like to look in the mirror and see your body three times larger than it really is. Knowing that there are others out there like me is comforting.  Knowing that a disturbing number of them are hurting themselves because of this is disheartening.

It makes me sad for society.  Society is ugly: it tells people that in order to be "beautiful" you have to fit into a slim margin and closed standards.  It leaves out a really important rule: Beauty is the in the eye of the beholder.  We all have different tastes and preferences. We are all beautiful to someone.  Sexy, even.

With this point of view and a heavy heart, I say goodbye to Thought Catalog.  And I encourage you to do the same.

Spaghetti-Os and Doritos

I'm sick.

For real.  Nasty sinus infection that I would only wish on my worst enemies.  Being sick makes me realize that I would be a SHITTY cancer patient.  You read those obituaries that swear the loving wife/husband/father/mother/whatever braved a "courageous" battle with Cancer.  Not to steal a joke by a comedian who's name I'm too sick to remember right now, but I'd be the non-courageous Cancer Warrior.   I'm a terrible sick person.  I just want to lay around and make non-descript noises and watch Daytime TV and/or Netflix.

Which brings me to the point of my post.  Spaghetti-Os and Doritos.  And, let's face it, pretty much everything in my life comes back to food.  I have a terrible relationship with it, but that's another post for a slightly less feverish day. 

When I'm sick, I only want Spaghetti-Os and Doritos.  Maybe ginger ale.  "Why," you must be asking, "would you want such a weird and rather juvenile combination?" 

Well... When I was a sick kid, my single-teenaged-father had pretty much no fucking idea what he was doing.  I don't blame him.  I mean, if I had a kid as a soon-to-be 28 year-old, I'd have to lean pretty heavily on the internets.  That didn't exist in 1986.  So, when little Lizzy was home sick, she was served Spaghetti-Os and Doritos.   It's nostalgia.  Yeah, let's call it that. 

So, now that I'm a sick grown-up, I still want the same thing.  It makes me feel comfortable.  It puts me back in the days when being sick meant that Bob Barker was my temporary babysitter.  That the saga of the Deveraux and Brady clans on Days of Our Live, even for just one day, was so enthralling.  Even though I had no idea what they were talking about.  These days, if I'm sick, I usually have to suck it up and be an adult. 


But being an adult just means that I can eat Spaghetti-Os and Doritos whenever I damn well feel like it.