That Time I Should Have Died Part Three: In Which I Almost Get My Little Kid Nipples Ripped Off (Alternative Title: Jessica Quits Fashion Design)

As I have mentioned before, my sister is my best friend.  My entire life has been spent following her lead, learning from her experiences and trusting her counsel wholeheartedly.  Like a young samurai before a sensei, I submitted to her demands and obeyed her instructions with the blind loyalty of a Golden Retriever.  Jessica knew what she was doing, and I always assumed that she would never steer me wrong or wander into territories out of her control. 

Whether she was aware of my unwavering obedience or not is unclear to me, but if it was, I'm not sure if Jessica was emboldened by the sense of importance I had bestowed upon her or just plain drunk on it.  All I know is that the combination of Jessica's creativity and my naivety to perform her every whim proved to be almost deadly one fateful night in which we were both bored.

In all of us is some desire to create, to make something out of nothing so that it exists in the world and we can look at it and say we made it.  Art, clothing, careers, whatever: I don't think that I am alone in feeling a swell of satisfaction looking at a finished product made by my hands.  I'm not sure if every girl goes through a fashion designing phase, but I remember Jessica and I both toyed with it.  To this day, Jessica is highly skilled at combining prints and textures with amazing accessories and shoes culminating into a spectacular outfit or ensemble; I, on the other hand, routinely grab whatever shirt doesn't gather too much under my armpits and pull it over tattered Bermuda shorts and call it good.  And I think that the world owes me a thank you when I blow-dry my hair.  The point is, that one restless night in middle school, Jessica's creative juices were apparently flowing, and I was the perfect idiot model to test her prototype.

I can only imagine that when Jessica decided she wanted to "make a shirt," she must have realized her inability to sew and the lack of raw fabric in which to fashion a tunic.  However, her eyes fell upon what she conceived to be the next best thing to spun silk or cotton: a roll of masking tape.  Tim Gunn would be proud of Jessica's ingenuity and determination to "make it work."  Using me as a mannequin, Jessica was going to make the world's best masking tape shirt.

We immediately set to work, but in hindsight, our approach was dubiously flawed.  I now understand that to apply a masking tape shirt, we should have began with me (the dummy mannequin) wearing an actual shirt on my person.  However, our unbridled passion to begin work on Jessica's masterpiece could not be broken to think out all the specifics.  At Jessica's suggestion, I stripped off my T-shirt (or most likely my Jimmy'Z sweatshirt that I lived in) and laid on the ground, ready for Jessica to apply strip after strip of masking tape to my childish skin.

Work progressed like this for several minutes.  Jessica applied strips of masking tape to my little naked torso, and everything was going fine for a while.  However, as she worked laboriously and I shifted in anticipation of seeing the finished product, I noticed that the strips of masking tape were pinching in areas like my armpits and around my belly.  Moving my joints and wiggling around was really starting to make the tape fold painfully, and my skin was starting to feel irritated under the material..

I told Jessica that I wanted to stop, that the game wasn't fun anymore and was starting to hurt.  I think Jessica had grown tired of laboring over tape application only to find half of my torso still unfinished.  She agreed that we could stop, and grabbed a strip of tape at the end, pulling it from my skin with no warning or thought.

I will try my best to explain to you the searing pain of having masking tape ripped off of your soft, unblemished baby skin.  And seared it did.  As the tape ripped off of my skin, a barbaric child's wail rose within my chest and out of my stupid mouth full of teeth too big for my head because I got my adult set of teeth early and they were crowding.  I screamed unexpectedly into my sister's face, and the bewilderment on both of our faces was something of legend.  As I babbled incoherently in an attempt to tell her that experience hurt way too much to continue, Jessica decided internally that the best course of action would be to rip tape off of my naked baby chest as fast as possible.  She quickly learned this wouldn't work when my flailing arms smacked her against the head.

After several minutes of calming my tears, Jessica informed me that there was no way I could live the rest of my life with 10 or 15 strips of masking tape stuck to my chest, as I was planning to do.  She tried different tactics of slowly pulling the tape loose from my skin or her genius idea of ripping when I wasn't expecting it.  All attempts were fruitless, as the masking tape had formed one of the strongest forces on earth with the tiny hairs growing all over my body (I am a mammal, after all).  During our struggles to remove the tape, we noticed my skin growing very red and even broken skin where tape removed a few superficial layers of dermis.

In all of the struggle, my mother heard my screams and perhaps the hissing sound of adhesive releasing from a surface, because the next thing I saw was her terrified face peering around the bedroom door.  Her expression went from worry to utter confusion, and I imagine the sight of one daughter ripping tape off of the red, angry naked chest of the other must have needed some explanation.  Soon enough Mom had joined the mission of pulling tape off of me.  I know now that it would have helped to have me soak in a tub of water to help peel the tape off, but on that horrible day, nobody was thinking of "painless" solutions.  We were all bamboozled enough to think that we should just rip and rip until it's done. 

The worst of the ordeal was pulling strips of tape from my poor little kid nipples; nobody should experience such torment.  Truthfully, I had a lot of arm hair as a child, and so that portion of tape removal was the worst, but that pain has been forgotten and the pain and irritation surrounding my sad little chee chees is what lingers in my memory.  Had my family been intentionally torturing me for information using such tactics, I would have admitted to anything: I'll talk, I swear!  Please, just spare my chee chees! 

An eternity later, the awful task was finished, my chest was red and raw and extremely tender, and Jessica lost all interest in alternative fashion using items my step-dad forgot to put in his tool box.  Perhaps I exaggerate when I include this story into my "That Time I Almost Died" series, but I defy anyone to rip masking tape off of their naked chest and tell me their life didn't flash before their eyes.  We have all come to find the humor in this story; Jessica even used it in her maid of honor's speech at my wedding (more to come on that fine note, sweet babies).  It may even be a part of the indestructible bond that Jessica and I share as sisters.  It is perhaps the best memory I have that I would never relive for any amount of money on this green earth.  I really have no way to end this story with a moral or comment on life as a whole, just please, please, please don't put masking tape on a naked torso and then attempt to rip it off.

Adam Sandler Doesn't Know Anything About Loving Sweatshirts

I was never a fashionable kid.  From the time I became responsible for dressing myself until almost today, I have rarely, if ever, looked remotely put together.  Childhood pictures of me reveal wrinkled pants and shirts that most likely came from the floor, completely uncoordinated with one another.  A devil-may-care attitude toward clothes coupled with the fact that I grew up during the baby doll tee craze with the body of a white string bean could only result in my outfits looking like a laughable, ill-fitting embarrassment. 

One item of clothing that I did particularly adore, however, was my light aqua-colored sweatshirt that I wore literally every day for almost two years.  The sweatshirt was emblazoned with a car in the middle, surrounded above and below with the same name in different colors with a heavy 80's inspiration: Jimmy'Z (I don't know the correct pronunciation, but my family and I have always just said "Jimmy Z"). 

I had no idea if this was a clothing brand name or an auto mechanic company that advertised via bitchin' sweatshirts, but none of that mattered.  What matters is that I loved this sweatshirt with what I now realize is an irrational obsession, pawing after it every morning like a man underwater, desperately clawing for the surface, for my very life.  The pants and shirts that I "chose" every morning were arbitrary and inconsequential; they were expendable as napkins and I probably hated them all. I do remember that I only had one pair of pants that did not rest above my ankles, exposing the lace frills at the ends of my socks; these pants I tolerated.  But as soon as I begrudgingly robed myself in my garbage clothes, I would dutifully pull my Jimmy'Z sweatshirt over my head and let its over-sized fabric drape over my shoulders like a twin-sized sheet.  The sleeves pooled around my hands like those of a wizard, and my legs jutted out from the bottom of the sweatshirt like knobby twigs from under a circus tent. 

I donned my sweatshirt with the reverence of a crown upon a king's brow.  And with that, I was ready for school.  Every day.  From 3rd grade until maybe 5th or 6th, I don't remember.  When you wear the same sweatshirt every day, you can imagine how the days bleed together in an aqua blur.

As often as I wore my Jimmy'Z sweatshirt, I am surprised at how few pictures exist of me in it.  I'm sure there are more somewhere at my parents' house, but I was hard-pressed to find one this evening.  I pondered this to a friend earlier, who said, "Maybe your mom didn't take pictures of you in that sweatshirt because she didn't want people to think you wore it every day."  Good point.  I was able to dig up one picture in my possession, though, which more than adequately conveys my persistence in wearing the sweatshirt while also depicting my unadulterated enthusiasm for the sweatshirt itself.

This sweatshirt makes me impervious to drowning and death in general

What I really love about this photo is the fact that I am wearing it over a life vest in a boat on what is obviously a hot and sunny day.  Not only am I refusing to remove this sweatshirt, but as my mom instructs my sister and me to smile for the camera, I grab the sweatshirt and put it proudly on display with the facial expression of...what?  An evil genius in the midst of maniacal laughter?  A fan standing front row at an Aerosmith concert?  An 8-year-old just kicking life in the twosie the only way she knows how?  My exuberance knows no bounds in this picture, all thanks to Jimmy'Z.

I caught an understandable amount of guff for my decision to live in a sweatshirt nonstop.  I remember my mom holding the door for my sister and I as we dashed to the school bus.  Upon seeing me yet again in my Jimmy'Z sweatshirt, my mom asked exasperatedly, "Tiffany, why are you wearing that sweatshirt again?  It's not cold outside."  My only thought to her question, which I verbalized, was, "So?"

Another time, my sister approached me in the hall and told me briefly, "Tiffany, that high school boy will give us a ride home from school, but you have to take off that stupid sweatshirt."  I popped my Bubblicious and replied coolly, "Well, smell you later."  NOTE: This part of the story is not true, but I thought it might be mildly entertaining.

I grew up an avid Adam Sandler fan in both the film and musical sense.  My friends and I quoted Billy Madison and Happy Gilmore lines well into our 20's.  I borrowed my dad's Sandler CD's and barricaded myself in my bedroom, laughing until I was out of breath at Lunch Lady Land, the Thanksgiving Song, and What the Hell Happened to Me?, among many others.  As an adult, I strongly recommend you buy his album What's Your Name?, and you may wholeheartedly thank me later.  During one of my countless nights listening to Adam Sandler's music and trying to figure out what he meant during what I now know to be his very filthy songs, I noted a little gem by the name of "Red Hooded Sweatshirt," a song he wrote as an ode to his red hoodie about their many adventures together.  From using his hoodie as a pillow on a nighttime bus ride to feeling guilt over removing it for a shirts and skins basketball game, Adam paid homage to his hoodie with his smooth vocals and charming wit.  I remember laughing along with the jokes in the song, but I honestly thought Adam Sandler didn't know shit about committing yourself to a sweatshirt.

My point is, that sweatshirt gave me a metaphorical pair of brass ones.  I was never a child that clung to a security blanket in the common outlets: I didn't need a blanket, stuffed animal, or pacifier the way other kids did; those things never did anything for me.  But I guess I found an odd sense of control and confidence with that sweatshirt, two qualities that eluded me as I began junior high and high school.  Somewhere along the way, I remember someone joking about "that sweatshirt Tiffany wouldn't take off," and for the first time, I didn't brush it off like before.  I wondered if maybe wearing the same sweatshirt every day actually was something worthy of disapproval.  I don't mean to put too much emphasis on people poking fun at Tiffany & The Sweatshirt, because it really is laughable, but I guess I was at that age when you start to look around and compare yourself to what the rest of the world is doing.  And the rest of the world was not wearing a giant-sized sweatshirt every single day.

I don't remember exactly when I stopped wearing the sweatshirt, but I remember folding it up and putting it in my dresser, reserving it for cold weather only.  And then it sat in my dresser for a long time as I bought more knitted sweaters with trendier patterns that actually fit me, and I think I finally decided to donate it to charity or some rubbish as I entered high school.  I really don't remember what happened to the sweatshirt, but I have tried to look for it in my old clothes during trips back home and have not been able to find it.  Getting rid of it has been my life's greatest mistake, more so than the time me, my sister, and some of our friends snuck into Mexico while our mom slept at the beach house we were visiting.  I really messed up good when I got rid of something that was such a constant part of my life for a long time; besides, I think it would fit me just right these days and it's a shame I don't have it anymore.

In writing this story, I actually found out that Jimmy'Z is a clothing brand which, from the looks of it, mostly deals in surfer/skater/beach apparel.  I like to remember it as a walking advertisement for some bad ass auto body shop, but that's irrelevant.  Scouring the Internet as I have done today, I can not find the same design of my sweatshirt anywhere, but the Jimmy'Z website offers an email address, to which I intend to compose a letter asking if they could help me find the one I loved so much.  I truly hope that I can be reunited with my sweatshirt one day, my Precious, my Rosebud; I see it as a modern tale of love lost and then found again, a heart bubbling over with adoration, stringed instrumental music, and aqua cotton.

Seriously, guys, it was a really bitchin' sweatshirt.

I'm pretty sure 2013 is going to be amazing

I truly enjoy the winter holiday season.  And it has nothing to do with Christmas and birthday presents, although those are admittedly fantastic.  What really knocks me back and fills me with awe is the attitude that seems to permeate the months of November through January.  Appreciation, gratitude, love, kindness, hope, nostalgia, excitement, wonder, and peace are so present in my life and my family during this time.  The day after Thanksgiving officially marks the beginning of the Christmas/New Year season for us (I have forbidden myself from listening to Christmas music until Thanksgiving has gotten its due limelight) and every year I am amazed at how good my family and friends make me feel.  I know that I am a blessed person, and remembering this at the end of the year shows me how rich my life is.

It also inspires me for what lies ahead, and I must say that for many reasons, 2013 is probably going to be the best year of my life.  I have a fiance that is loving, funny, trustworthy, strong where I am weak, and understands me.  If that weren't enough, the dude can cook and has green eyeballs.  Any girl that wants more than that is chasing a unicorn fart.  On September 28, 2013, I get to marry that guy and have a partner and companion for the rest of my life.  (Note: You may be wondering about the date.  Our original wedding date was August 31, but we changed it to accommodate a football game.  The McCann-Franklin wedding and a home game in the SEC is way too much awesomeness for one weekend in Aggieland).  That alone makes 2013 an incredible year for me.

Aside from that, 2013 will also be the year that I graduate with a Master of Science degree and, Lord willing, will begin the career that I have wanted since I was 14 years old and opened a book about forensic investigations.  My birthday last week marked the 12th year that I have been slowly but surely working towards this goal, and this week I finished polishing my resume and writing a cover letter that I was actually really proud of for a job that makes my heart swell to think about.  Keith and I will live in Laredo as he accepted a job offer for his dream job at a law firm in Laredo, and I have learned that a brand new, state-of-the-art DPS crime lab is underway in Laredo to be open for business in September 2013.  September?  Isn't something happening then?  Oh, yes, I will be getting married and moving to Laredo and will have a MS degree in forensic science hoping to work in Drug Chemistry/Controlled Substances. Just as an impressively new crime lab opens in a city that largely seizes and investigates controlled substances.  As with my future husband, I feel like this is meant to be and proof that God loves me (further proof that God loves me: Crunchwrap Supremes).  While I have a long way to go, finishing the cover letter felt really good and made me feel like I am actively doing things to help myself.

I also enjoy this time of year because it is fun to set new goals and challenges for the next 12 months, and while I don't meet every resolution I set for myself, New Year's is a very inspirational time for me to figure out how I can better myself and my relationships.  I keep trying to examine myself and see where I need improvement, and the two main flaws I am trying to focus on right now are to stop interrupting people and to be a better listener (not too far removed from one another, I'll admit).  I should have mastered these two qualities in middle school, but I think it will be good for my relationships to work on this part of my life.  My other resolutions for 2013 are mostly about eating better, exercising, and winning back the affections of an outside kitten who my neighbor's son stole from my porch and raised in their garage.  I have not yet decided if forgiving said neighbor's son is on my resolution list or not. Rome wasn't built in a day.

Life Lessons from Liz Lemon's Soul Sister #001

When dumping a bag of chips upside down to funnel the crumbs into your wide open mouth, remember to close your eyes.

I've been nearly blinded by Cool Ranch shards one too many times.

A Wedding Date and Mario on Wii - AKA Things that are Pumping Me Up

I have been avoiding writing posts because I haven't been able to create a story format in which to explain what has been going on this summer.  I started my summer internship in Houston this summer and am actually halfway done as of this week.  However, since the stuff I get excited about at work makes me look like a psychopath (autopsy photos, body exhumations, big shipments of controlled substances) and the fact that I'm not supposed to talk about specific casework in a media outlet, I don't think that I can really get into it (or find a relatable audience) via my simple blog.

However, while perusing DIY craft projects on my Pinterest or browsing a funny website or doing something fun yet unproductive, I had a subtle musing: what's wrong with just sharing what is making me really happy right now?  I am finding a lot of joy in life, and while I am susceptible to getting in a funk occassionally (I drive in Houston every day and miss my sister and fiance being closeby) I have experienced a few things that have helped me Get Over It and even find happiness for the majority of my day.

For one, I have set my wedding date and booked a venue.  These are two major steps to complete, and I am very pleased with both.  As long as the world doesn't end beforehand, I will marry a pretty awesome dude on August 31, 2013, in the city where we met.

Also, I got a Wii for Christmas but, due to my spring class schedule, I was too afraid to install it for fear of throwing my academics down the toilet.  I'm proud of my decision since I had a really good semester, but this last weekend Keith installed the console for me and I ended up reliving childhood memories of Mario tearing through Koopa territory to rescue that helpless dame yet again.  I have vowed to beat the game by the end of the summer.

I am uplifted by countless other blessings in my life, like the fact that Texas is getting some much-needed rain this summer and my classmate Jesse and I meet up every week or so at a sports bar to watch basketball games, have a beer, and shamelessly eat a lot of buffalo wings.  I see/read/watch something funny every day and try to love people: I think that above all else, this is my biggest piece of advice for living a fulfilling life.  Laugh every day and be loving towards people.  Both feel really good.

Something that doesn't feel so good: having masking tape ripped off of your tender preteen skin when you and your sister decide to design a poorly-planned T-shirt on your bare chest with tape, which is the subject of the next part in my series That Time I Should Have Died (Part 3)!!  See you then!

That Time I Should Have Died Part II: Come on, Baby, Light My Fire!

I grew up in the rural Piney Woods of East Texas.  I had a wholesome country childhood that involved waking up to birds chirping, exploring the woods surrounding our home, and learning vital survival and environmental skills.  It was like spending your entire pre-pubcesence as a Boyscout on a wilderness weekend, learning to recognize poison sumac and using moss on a tree trunk to find due North and creating fire with a flint rock.  With this kind of daily experience, you are set for life, ready to live a self-sustaining existence like Jeremiah Johnson (I think, I never actually watched that movie, but I wanted you to think I know all about classic Robert Redford films).

Unfortunately, I did not actually have this kind of childhood.  I read books throughout adolescence, and apparently they didn't reach me much of the common sense I would have gained had I taken more looks around my physical world.  Aside from reading Hatchet, an book that actually teaches children about basic survival and efficiently using all of the possible resources at your disposal, I read a lot of fiction kid stuff that only describe a protagonist's inner struggle between good and evil or the harrowing tales of underdogs rising to their full potential and proving the nay-sayers of the world wrong.  Rubbish, essentially.

The tour-de-force of my failure to understand basic common sense occurred one evening when my parents started a bonfire out in our spatial pasture.  Living on a farm on many acres, my family was blessed with seclusion, natural surroundings, and (except for me) a resourcefulness to take care of ourselves.  My step-dad had changed the oil of our tractor earlier in the day, at least I think so because he had a five-gallon bucket of used oil, which he used as a propellant to get the bonfire started.

Before I go any further, I would like to make the statement that I understand how completely environmentally crappy this was of us to start a fire with  oil.  That was a long time ago, and my step-dad is a good man, and he only did it for a little while until our firewood caught aflame.  Okay?  Still friends? Great.

Anyway, after using the oil to start our bonfire, my step-dad sat down next to my mother, and we all watched the flames for a while and enjoyed being together out under the stars.  Since I was a stupid little kid, though, I soon got bored and looked for other means of entertainment.  Although my parents never approved of my playing with fire, I found a long, thin stick halfway emerged in the flames with the other half sticking out towards me, a perfect handle to a perfect torch with which to explore.  I took the handle and pulled the stick out of the flames, but I was disappointed to find that given the thinness and greenness of the stick, the flame soon puttered out from the tip of my otherwise perfect torch. 

I spent several minutes re-emerging my stick into the fire, hoping to ignite it long enough to walk away from the fire and find some adventures like Indiana Jones.  However, it just wasn't working.  I impatiently looked around for something to help me with my endeavors.

That was when my eyes fell upon the five-gallon bucket of oil. 

I realized that I could dip my stick into the oil, which would definitely help my flame stay lit at the end of my torch, which had already burned out again.  I approached the bucket and coated the end of my stick with runny, black oil.  I was thrilled to discover that my stick did in fact catch fire very quickly with my propellant on it, but the flame still did not last long enough for my enjoyment.  I practiced dipping my extinguished stick for different durations of time or exposing it to the bonfire for a longer period of time, with no success.

Then, I had an epiphany.  If dipping the extinguished torch into the oil was not producing my desired results, then surely it would work if I put the stick into the bucket while it was still aflame.  That would help the fire stay lit long enough, and I could run around with my torch to my heart's content.  I quickly set my plan into action.  I burned my stick for a few seconds and when a flame appeared at the tip, I walked it to the bucket of oil.  I slowly lowered the burning stick closer and closer to the surface of the oil.  I distinctly remember that the flame illuminated the surface of the oil, and I could see the reflection of my own face hovering over the bucket, watching the flame come within inches of the liquid.

If anybody does not see a problem at this point, let me inform you: I SHOULD HAVE DIED THAT NIGHT!! Had that flame touched that high volume of combustible oil, I would have sent my parents and myself straight to the Promised Land in a burning ball of hot oily fire.  I should have blown up like a firecracker, but at the last possible microsecond before I plunged that flame into that oil and self-destructed my entire family, I heard my mother's worried shrill pierce through my own pyromaniac thoughts of glory with, "TIFFANY, WHAT IN THE WORLD ARE YOU DOING?!"

Before I could explain my reasonable intentions, though, my parents seized my failed torch, gave me a very quick and angry lecture on the combustibility of such a large amount of oil, and sent me to the house so that I wouldn't kill everyone.  I don't think we had another bonfire for quite a while after that.

Looking back now, I can't help but marvel at the wondrous timing of my mother's intervention that saved our family from a fiery death, and I also wonder at how a child who was really old enough to know better could be so thick-headed.  I am proud to say that I now have a vast knowledge on basic chemical reactions (and even some more advanced reactions!) and am doing much better at staying alive through fundamental brain functioning.

However, I also think that more children's books should address the topic of things you shouldn't do that would turn your family into an atomic fireball.

Lab Reports & Worm Medicine

I feel like the majority of my posts (few as they are) start with an apology for my sporadic posting "schedule."  Since enthralling the world with my sister's bullying tactics against my bullies or the marriage proposal that ever-so-sweetly blew my mind hole, I have been swept up in a whirlwind of activities.

In February, I went to Atlanta, GA, for a week-long forensic science conference and experienced thousands of personal highs and two tragic lows; I lost a pearl earring Keith's parents had given me and nobody actually called the city Hotlanta.

I found out my cat had worms via her disgusting choice to use the bathroom rug rather than her litter box and had to exploit her love of tuna fish to administer her medicine.  It is a sad existence when you fear walking into a room because you know you're going to find the wayward excrement of an animal and have to check it for parasites.  After about a week and a half of Zsa Zsa actually using her litter box for #2, my world was crushed again this very day when I came home to find that the worms have caught their second wind on my fluffy bathroom rug; I guess the (mis)adventure begins again.

Just last weekend I spent a glorious Saturday with Keith and his parents viewing the King Tut exhibit at the Houston Museum of Fine Arts, marveling at the intricately (and quite impressively) sculpted jewelry and statues as well as getting some serious tingles watching a video of scientists and anthropologists collecting and running a DNA profile on the mummy of Tutankhamun.  Not so tingly: King Tut's mother and father were siblings, making them Uncle Dad and Aunt Mom.

Since Christmas, I have also started my second semester of grad school and have been struggling to stay focused on both my numerous reading assignments and NBC's Thursday night line-up.  As soon as I check one thing off of my to-do list, two more chores take its place, like a modern day Hydra flinging different commands at me: "Write your Trace Evidence paper!"  "Don't forget to read for Toxicology or call that guy to mow the lawn!"  "Have you checked your cat's stool today?!" (how often do you get to drop a Greek mythology reference?!)  The amount of schoolwork this semester has me barely keeping my head above water, and my long bouts of sitting by myself studying/reading/watching Hulu are starting to noticeably stunt my social skills.  If you've noticed, I think I have talked about feces in almost every post to-date; clearly, my sense of humor is just getting juvenile.

However, school and life continue to fascinate and bless me, even if it means I am far too sleep-deprived and way over-caffeinated, surrounded by textbooks and sifting through cat turds (if you can't tell, I'm really unhappy about this cat poop thing).  If you've had the patience to stick around, I humbly thank you and hope to repost a little more frequently.

Speaking of, I am currently cooking up my next post, the second installment to what promises to be a long-running series.  That Time I Should Have Died: Part II is soon on its way!  See you then!