Resolutions and Goals. The Suckage.

Yeah, it is a new year and you are trying to be a new you and that is just fantastic because the current you totally sucks. And that smell, oh boy, do something about that smell.

A lot of people are either all talk about their new goals and resolutions or are yammering on about how resolutions are lame and/or how they always ditch them. Well, I am here to convince you to not make any new year’s…whatevers.

First off, the Gregorian calendar is jacked as hell. January 1st isn’t even the real start of a year and a year does not really last 365 days (or 366 days if it is one of those kinda years.) No, I do not have a solution to this and yes, I would much rather complain and say it is stupid.

Secondly, if you have some huge goal for the year without any actionable steps or mini-goals to hit throughout the year, then you are not going to accomplish anything other than being labeled as that person who says they will do something but never actually does anything…maybe. What do I know? You could be a go-getter. But it’s doubtful.

Third…ly, unless you have a really awesome resolution that involves something totally rad, such as, oh, I dunno, building a giant robot in the shape of a dinosaur that can fly and shoot unicorns out of its eyes, than there is a really big chance that you are boring and that your friends do not care about your resolution(s) and wish you would shut up when you tell them how you plan to blog once a week for a year.

What You Should Do:

  1. Destroy the Gregorian calendar. I hear the Mayan’s have a sweet calendar. Supposedly there is some sort of party happening 2012. I think it is what that movie “House Party” is based off of.
  2. Order a pizza from the internet. That shiz is crazy, you guys! Oh man, when I saw that Domino’s pizza tracker said, “Jesus is making your pizza,” I totally flipped out. JESUS PIZZA.

I just made your new year rock. You are welcome.

Another answer.

brienis:

Why Helvetica Neue? What do you have against old Helvetica?

BRANDI. I know this is you. Stop questioning my font choices.

And anyway! What’s wrong with Helvetica Neue?!

I love you Brienis, but that was NOT me.

But the statement still stands. As a designer, you should know the differences and why the original Helvetica was created in the first place-therefore determining how you would use it in design.

So honestly, what is WITH Helvetica Neue? You diss Helvetica like that but it is not as if YOU created a font.

Yeah, I went there.

And didn’t check my spelling or grammar, because I am a designer god dang it. Look at the pictures, THE PICTURES.

I hate tiny pancakes.

Does this need a caption? No. Just nod your head in agreement and think “oh, totally true.” Click-through to see full size and read the text.

Does this need a caption? No. Just nod your head in agreement and think “oh, totally true.”

Click-through to see full size and read the text.

I’m about to order my wedding invitations.

My mother has denied ALL of my suggestions for the wording on my wedding invitations. Quite frankly, I think she is being a little too mother-of-the-bride, if you catch my drift.

What do you guys think?

***

Rafael and Brandi Are Getting Hitched!

Join us February 20th, 2010 at 6:30pm  and watch them make out in front of a priest. It will be totally awesome.

***

SATURDAY SATURDAY SATURDAY!

WITNESS RAFAEL “CHUBACABRA” AND BRANDI “THE CRUSHER” PLEDGE THEIR LIVES TO EACH OTHER at 6:30PM on FEBRUARY 20th, 2010.

KIDS SEATS ARE STILL HALF PRICE! FIRST 10 PEOPLE TO RSVP GET A FREE TSHIRT SIGNED BY THE COUPLE!

***

Rafael and Brandi formally invite you to get dressed fancy, watch them get married, and then play beer pong and get drunk.

Everything goes down on February 20th, 2010 at 6:30PM.

You should probably get a cab.

***

Rafael asked Brandi to marry him! After she quit laughing, they got around the planning a wedding.

Brandi is now hyperventilating about the cost. But don’t worry, the party should still be fun.

Join us February 20th at 6:30pm.

(P.S. Bring cash gifts)

***

Full Open bar.

February 20th, 6:30pm.

[picture of a dinosaur eating a unicorn]

***

Rafael and Brandi are totally going to have sex.

But witness them get married beforehand.

February 20th at 6:30pm.

***

Rafael and Brandi request the honor of your presence at their marriage on Saturday, the twentieth day of February.

Unless you are British or Canadian, in which case, they request the “honour” of your presence.

It really isn’t that long. Seriously. I write like I’m ten. Paragraphs are only two sentences. And fragmented.

Left Eye of GrosssssWe are ignoring the fact that I am not good at blogging frequently, right? Yeah? Ok then.

While I have a slew of odd tales to tell, I am going with a classic, heartwarming Christmas story. This is one that is great to tell in person but really deserves to be online. This is the story of… my eye. Oh, and it really doesn’t involve Christmas.

What many people don’t know about me is that I am partially blind. And partially deaf. But the deaf thing is neither interesting nor related to my eye.

Anyway. So I was around nine years old doing what all nine year olds do: feeding the homeless at a church in Downtown Houston during the holiday season.

My best bud at the time (John Burger who, if you see him, let him know he needs to get on Facebook so we can reconnect) and I decided to take a break from the awesomeness of homelessness and chocolate cake. We went outside and decided to wage war on each other. Our ammo? Acorns!

No, an acorn did not hit me in the eye. The acorns are not foreshadowing. I just felt it necessary to mention the presence of acorns.

The thing about my buddy John is that he was a pretty big pansy. In fact, if I ran into him today and he was gay, I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised. His pansiness is really to blame when it comes to what happened to my eye. In fact, you could even say it’s the gays fault. But if we are doing that, I should blame the Nazi’s considering how German John is.

Wow, this is long. Let’s cut it. I began chasing John and he felt the need to throw a stick over his shoulder. The stick? Hit me right in the left eye. The toppish part—which was the problem.

My left eye, rather than popping out like one would think, popped into my cheekbone area. It felt a lot like getting poked in the eye… by a giant stick. I went to touch my face, saw the blood, and promptly passed out because I thought I would bleed to death.

Next thing I knew, I woke up with my mom holding me tightly. I was in the kitchen surrounded by  100 homeless people. The smell? Awesome. Two paramedics literally went “AUUUGGGH!” when my eyes finally opened.  One got the guts to push my eye back into socket. Then it was off the ER.

My pupil shattered like an egg yolk, leaving me with an almost entirely black colored eyeball for close to two years. Three holes in my cornea and a tear in my retina. I was in a straightjacket for three days to keep from moving. My pupil took several years to reshape and has finally reduced in size, though it continually stays dilated.

Can I see out of my eye? Yes. I use very strong contacts and I laugh when people ask me to drive at night. Does it hurt? Only in bright light.

So yeah, basically, DO NOT THROW OBJECTS AT MY FACE BECAUSE I WILL TOTALLY FLIP OUT AND BEAT YOU TO A PULP YOU BASTARD.

And really, I should not be driving at night.

This post took a weird turn because I honestly started off with wanting to talk about these cute throw pillows I found at Target.

Look, I am trying really hard to not talk about this wedding stuff. In fact, I’m pretty much past wedding stuff and have headed straight into nesting. But not domestic nesting. It’s more like a “all-of-my-crap-and-none-of-your-crap-because-you-have-poor-taste” kind of nesting.

So, since Mr. Man and I are getting married, we are getting pre-marital counseling. I like going in and pretending that the counselor is my therapist, but then I start going into why I’m not speaking to my dog because he deliberately disobeyed me and sometimes I need respect more than affection and my dog just rolls his eyes, farts, and walks out of the room. Then Mr. Man does that leg-pat thing. You know, where the guy avoids looking at you out of embarrassment and then slowly pats your leg twice as if to say, “shut-up before you start talking about the Nazi’s again.” Yeah. Mr. Man does the leg-pat thing to me a lot in our sessions.

The counselor is incredibly cool, though. We really lucked out. Then again, I kinda pretended that he was high during one of our sessions so that I wouldn’t be caught up in how slow he was talking because that kind of thing pisses me off and reminds me of the Nazi’s.

Part of the whole counseling shtick requires us to take these really in-depth relationship-personality tests. Our counselor decided we should focus on the items in the negative column. After about five minutes of “Brandi… you have colorful and… multi-faceted… personality problems,” I decided that the only marriage advice I will take with me into my future marriage is “smile and nod, and punch Mr. Man in the throat right as he is about to fall asleep.” (I may have altered that. Or made it up entirely.)

I’m totally going to win at marriage.

The thing about being a messed up person is that you have some messed up friends. Also, my friend really likes morphine.

The best man for my upcoming awesome-raptor-amazing-wedding-a-thon messaged me this weekend saying, “do you want to go on a magical adventure!?” and me automatically thinking unicorns were involved, I said “HELLZ YEAH!”

Turns out, he was having one of those appendicitis things.

(That’s the thing where the alien rips through your lower intestines and rapes your childhood memories, right? Because that is totally what happened. In my head. Which counts.)

Mr. Man and I went to the hospital with Justin (the dude with the alien) and waited around for an eternity for a doctor to check him out. While we waited, we told each other horribly racist jokes. You know, to lift Justin’s spirits. Or something.

The janitors pretty much hated us by the end of the night because they didn’t get the jokes. Probably because we were speaking English the entire time.

When the doctor showed up, we found that he is Asian. I’m not saying that to point that he was obviously a good doctor because he’s Asian. I’m pointing out that the doctor is Asian because he was wearing cowboy boots with his scrubs. That’s right, ladies and gents, an Asian cowboy operated on my friend.

My friend finally went into surgery at 1:30-ish in the morning to get a part of his manhood removed. The doctor also totally took advantage of him while he was under anesthesia.  He just won’t admit it. Because he is Asian.

All-in-all, my weekend was boring and racist, which is totally ok with me. Until those charges the Asian doctor filed against me go through.

I might be full of tequila right now.

It’s stuff like this that make that story about me once kidnapping a duck much more acceptable and believable.

So the other night I went to this KARAOKE HELL 2009 thing (yes, it must be in all-caps) at this really bizarre restaurant type place with a bathroom that smelled so strongly of bleach that my nose hairs will probably never grow back.

The night started off kind of smoothly. I mean, yes, I spent quite a bit of time in the bathroom totally failing at helping some chick out of a dress that hated her so much that I had to call in a dude to help us out. I pretty much became completely useless because to be honest, there were boobs, bleach fumes, and I knew they wouldn’t deliver my Saki to the bathroom. I don’t know. There could’ve been a three-way going on. But again, no Saki in the bathroom. I think the restaurant is totally missing out on a great marketing opportunity.

Then came the amazing singing styles of people who I don’t really know that well but who continually rubbed my face in the fact that they don’t have crippling stage fright like I do. Thanks, you fun loving jerks with voices that rivaled Julie Andrews and caused me to bootleg your performances and sell copies on the internet. I only feel slightly bad.

I spent a large portion of my night regaling my tablemates with stories of a girl I know with a lion tattooed snatch, only to be upstaged by a friend who told everyone about a girl who doesn’t like lions so she got a tattoo of two boxing gloves accompanied by, “Hit it Like a Champ.”

And to top off the evening, Lady GaGa showed up and sang karaoke with us. Just as you suspect, she did a terrible job, dressed like a tramp, and everyone left with a new STD.

The night was pretty freakin’ magical, you guys.

Lady GaGa

Photo credit: a dude.

Because I tweeted something random and people had a heart attack about it and it freaked me out.

If you ever needed a primer on me, this video covers it. Just sayin’.

 

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