Brainlicker.jpg

Lickabrainey Bobainey

By Sarah Larson | Comment Diversions | January 27, 2010 | Comments ()

By Sarah Larson | Comment Diversions | January 27, 2010 |


Brainlicker.jpg

First off, that picture doesn't have jack-all to do with anything. I'm just an evil little hobgoblin and I relish the killing of Dustin's will to live. I like shredding his soul into tiny tiny microscopic fragments. For funsies. I enjoy the fact that every time he checks the site, he has to douche his eyes, in the sense of stabbing himself in the face with Shia LaBeouf. Especially because I get the distinct impression that LaBeouf just wouldn't cooperate at all, and would probably go limp and bendy like a wet noodle and wrap himself around Dustin's head like a face-hugger, and possibly lay actual eggs. I don't know for sure that kid's human; has he even been tested? I don't think it's a requirement to get a SAG card, or anything. Whatever - then Dustin's chest would burst open, which I guess would be all sad 'n shit, but OH MY GOD YOU GUYS, SIGOURNEY WEAVER MIGHT SHOW UP! Sigourney Weaver is AWESOME! Oh, and I call dibs if Michael Biehn makes an appearance.

But seriously, that's all totally beside the point. THE POINT IS THIS:


Okay, I lied. That's not actually the point either, I'm just really indecisive. And hungry. I'm pretty sure I'm ordering pizza regardless of which option is the winner. Wait, I might order Chinese instead. What I really want is a burrito as big as my head, but there isn't a Mexican place around here that delivers and whoever thinks I'm actually leaving the house to seek sustenance is INSANE. I gots me a check card, a phone and a doorbell; the food comes to me so I don't have to walk more than 15 feet under my own power. The infrastructure of facilitated laziness is the single greatest thing about America. Or worst, depending on which end of the delivery phone call you're on.

The hell was I talking about? Oh, that's right, nothing at all. I'm really discombobulated today. All morning I thought it was still Tuesday, and the cat had a goddamn nervous breakdown for 90 minutes straight because he couldn't find his Thing 2 doll (I'm sorry, action figure) and I had to search the whole house for it so he'd stop freaking the fuck out. He kind of has special needs.

So anyway, let's talk war wounds. Tell me all about your biggest and baddest bumps, bruises and boo-boos. Please link to photos of your sweetest scars, or any documentary footage of your bruising, bleeding, protruding bones, or prolapsed organs. Bonus points for grievous, accidental self-injury through stupidity (see if you can beat TK!) and disqualifications for anything that happened whilst operating heavy machinery and/or a motor vehicle under the influence. C'mon, impress me with your suffering.

Sarah Larson lives in Minnesota, where she is usually up to no good. She does not believe in pie, and she will punch you in the face if you try to tell her that your dumb grandmother's recipe will change her mind. She only updates her blog when bullied into it, but you can read the archive here if you're bored enough.


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