My dog is a serial killer

I just found out my amazing, beautiful silky black hound dog is a serial killer. Yes, you heard me right. She is an outright murderer! And today, I caught her in the act of disemboweling an innocent. The poor little chipmunk had no chance.
I am sure, somewhere out there, is a pile of chipmunk and squirrel bones and rotting bodies, just waiting to be found so their loved ones can find peace.

Maura the Merciless has struck again.

Why I love T-Mobile

So today during school I, for some unknown reason, decided it would be a wonderful idea to drop my unlocked touch-screen phone into my purse. About an hour later, when I realized I hadn't received a single phone call or text from anyone I wondered what could have happened. As a rummaged through my purse, searching desperately for my cellular life-line, horrendous thoughts ran amok through my head. Nobody loved me anymore, small meteors had rained from the sky, killing everyone who would even remotely consider calling me.
My fingers wrapped around the cold plastic in triumph. With a cheer on my lips, I quickly slipped open my innovated, top-of-the-line Samsung Galaxy-T. My cheer turned into a wail of horror.
What is this!?! No! It couldn't be! My wonderful, beautiful phone had rebelled. It was asking me for my pin. What pin? My birthday? No- and to make matters worse, it started laughing at me while counting down my attempts. 0000? No! One attempt left... I started sweating, fear creeped up my spine. I chewed my nails down to the quick as I tried desperately to think of what my pin could possibly be. And then it hit me! I felt so stupid. Just like in starting up a voicemail, it normally takes the last four digits of your cell number. I typed in 8827, a smug smile on my face, knowing I had outsmarted my phone. My phone's screen went black, and then emitted a loud screeching sound before coming back with, "To many attempts. Phone Locked. Contact Customer Care for assistance."

WHAT?????

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I'm not ashamed to admit it, I cried in the middle of the Kent State University Campus while clutching my phone to my chest in utter dispair. Why me? I had an entire class to sit through, my phone is screeching at me, and to make matters worse, my computer battery was dead and I had forgotten my charger.

My body shut down in fatigue and sorrow, so I slept through my Human Evolution class, then sped home to try and call T-Mobile to see if they could unlock my phone for me.

Here is a fun game to try. Grab a stopwatch, Go to T-Mobile.com, and time yourself to see how long it takes you to find a customer support number.
I called three numbers, each time the tech support people would tell me to call a different number with my problem. Finally I get a hold of someone who is willing to help.
"Thank you for calling T-Mobile, this is Tara, how can I help you?"
"My phone is torturing me! Please help me! It is trying to destroy my life!"
"Okay, can I have your name?"
"Monica."
"Well Monica, it looks like you're not on this account you are calling about."
"It's my poppy's account."
"Well then, have your poppy call us."

So, I had to have my dad call T-Mobile for me, which was more humiliating that crying on campus.

 I get a call a little later from another T-Mobile support guru who can't speak English. She creates a three-way call with me, daddy-o and her and goes over what I need to do.
"Okey, entwer dis pin number intwo da keypad. 55055462446523PIN5PIN#."

"Uhhh.. okay? How long does my pin have to be?" I ask.
Minimum eigth chareectors," she slurs.
"Riiiiight. Okay." ... "It isn't working." Frusteration starts to set in.

"Okey, you sure you have 5550546 blahblahblah?"

"Yes."

"Try again."

"Not working."

"Okey, tell me back number I give you."

"55505blahblahblah.."

"What? No! I sed star! Star, star, star, 0, star." Her accent gets heavier the more irritated she gets, Lucky me.

"Okay miss.. what the hell is a star? You mean asterik?"

"Yesh, asteereek."

"Apparently I am an idiot for not speaking broken english. sorry."

So I switch my 5's for astericks.

"Not working."

"You have Star, star, star, 0 star?"

"Bitch, I want to knife you. I mean, yes, I have star star star 0 star."

"And pin is 8 chareectors?"

"Yes, my pin is eight CHARACTERS."

"Okay. well think of pin as something easy to remember. lieek your birfday. or 1, 2, 3, 4, 5."

This is when my dad has finally had enough.
"Ma'am," my dad cuts in- always the polite gentleman. "1, 2, 3, 4, 5, is only five characters. I thought you said she needed eight?"

"What? Ohhhh.. yeesh, I meant eight. 1, 2, 3, 4, 8."

"Daaaaad... can I kill her?"

Long story less long, she was unable to help me and had to transfer me to someone else. While I was in transit, I tried the code with only a four-digit pin. It unlocked.

This is why I love T-Mobile.

Memories

Blood flowed from my split lip and dripped onto my favorite shirt. I stared out the window, watching my last salvation walk away in complete disregard for what he was witnessing.
Tears forced themselves to my eyes, and sheer willpower kept them from overflowing.
Do not show emotion.
Strength I had not envisioned yanked my hair, forcing me to look into cold brown eyes.
"I hate you," I whisper.
She sighed and replied, "I know."

Her hands are like crinkled brown paper bags. Veiny, with long manicured fingernails protruding like claws. My eye caught the engagement ring my dad had given her many years before. It is stained with my blood.

My eyes remained shut tightly in prayer as she made the drive home. Wishing I was not stuck with her. Praying I would wake up and she was just a horrible nightmare. Hoping my dad would come home early and save me.

The engine shut off, and I looked up at the place I was supposed to call home. The one place I should be safe. I don't want to go in. I watch her enter the house and I follow slowly. Dread gripped my heart as I reached for the knob.
Locked.
I go to the front door, and just as I reach for the handle, I hear the key turn. Locked.
I go to the backyard, and I see her throw the dogs outside and slam the door shut. I hear the snick of the bolt sliding into place. Locked.  I wonder how long it will be this time.

I roamed the neighborhood for the night, cursing my bad luck as I realized both my friends were out of town.

The moon rose and the house remained locked up tight.
Tears streamed down my face as I gave in to self pity. Why me?




I can't believe I am about to publish this. Fuck it. 

Good fences make good neighbors

Our upstairs neighbor, who Kristen and I affectionately refer to as the 'Whore of Babylon', is the bane of our existence. You might be wondering why. If not, tough shit. I am going to tell you anyways.

1. She has a squeaky bed. Now, this might not be a big deal under normal circumstances, but when you live underneath someone with a multitude of male suitors (they aren't really suitors, if you know what I'm saying) this can become quiet irritating.

 

2. She has the gracefulness of an elephant. I should not know her exact location within her condo at 2 a.m., and yet I do because of her stomping.

3. She has an affinity for high heels. I like heels just as much as the next girl, but when she has them glued to her feet at all hours, and seems to pass time by walking laps around her condo, the clunking noise makes me want to stab her in the throat with a meat cleaver.  

4. She has taken it upon herself to contact the condo association detailing our numerous 'neighborly transgressions'. One of our supposed transgressions occured during an innocent outdoor game of toss-the-teddy bear with Maura, my dog. The cottony, soft, stuffing-filled, eye-less toy may have hit the side of the building once or twice. The Whore of Babylon was supposedly unable to sleep due to the loud banging noises the stuffed animal created, and she felt it necessary to rally for our eviction.

5. She thinks "Maura" is a boy's name. And yet, she teaches. Poor children. 

6. She has a horse-face. Kristen and I agreed already that our neighborhood should only allow attractive people, so we feel she should be evicted for this reason alone.

7. At least she's really friendly! Oh, wait. No she's not. She seems to be as kind hearted as Hitler and Satan's love child. 

If any of you, my dear readers, have any tips on how to deal with an unruly neighbor, please leave a comment below. Be quick about it though, or I'll be back here shortly begging for suggestions on how to dispose of a body instead.

--
If you like to laugh, click this link: ludakristen.com (You're welcome)

I am not a lazy person

I don't understand why people call me lazy. I get up and do things regularly. I take my dog to the dog park, I go to school and work, I run 26 mile marathons and practice my roundhouse kick with Chuck Norris every other day. These are not signs of laziness!
I mean, sure, most of the time you will find me on the couch playing Backyard Monsters or watching Supernatural reruns, or pretending to be asleep on my bed while my dog diligently watches for any movement that will alert her I am awake so she can whine and bark and scratch at the door to go potty. And true, I may prefer to use Twitter and sit outside for three hours chain smoking instead of reading the Narrative of Fredrick Douglass for my history class. But I swear- I am NOT lazy.

 Just pretend you don't notice the blaring television because the TV is to far away from the couch and the remote ran away. And I might hit snooze three... or twenty times before climbing out of bed, and I have to be honest, I sometimes skip showers because I just don't want to bathe- but I don't see how that is construed as me being lazy. I heard it was unhealthy to wash your hair every day anyways.

I may worship the person who designed the Circle K drive thru so I can buy my necessary items like chips and Full Throttle without even having to get out of my car, and I sometimes pretend I don't hear people when they are calling or talking to me because I feel like it would take to much effort to think of a response. But that does not make me lazy.

Swearsies.

Aliens, Hockey Players and University Hospital

So last night was Sunday night. I have come to love Sundays simply for the fact my sister and I go play hockey up in Cleveland with an adult pickup team. Well, my sister plays, I go and skate around, then go up to the bar and drink while they start their game.  Last night was especially important cause I had to study for a mid term for the following morning (today.)

So after I skated around for 45 minutes, I clambered off the ice, changed into unsmelly clothes, then hit the books. Not twenty minutes later I look up and all play has ceased. There seemed to be a huge conglomerate of players by the bench, and I assumed they were having a quick meeting. So back to studying I go. Just as I start working on the definition of Mercantilism, a puck smashes into the window right in front of me. I naturally land sprawled out on the floor with beer all over me. Cussing up a stream, which caused the children in the room to start crying, I climbed to my feet and looked out the now rubber-streaked window. And what I saw literally caused my heart to jump into my throat and stop beating. Three of my sisters fellow players stood there with white-stricken faces gesturing wildly for me to get down to the ice. Spilling the rest of my beer on my text books as I grabbed my purse.

 You see, my sister went to the doctor the other day and was suspected of having mono- the kissing disease. Which wouldn't have been a problem, but mono is known to swell the spleen and can rupture if playing contact sports. So as I'm trying to run down the stairs in flimsy flipflops, my thought process was, "Her spleen exploded and her body is filling up with bile and poop and she's going to die and she'll have poop all inside her."

When I got to the ice, although trying to be helpful, her teammates simply made my terror worse. I heared ten different stories about what happened before even laying eyes on my near dead sister, and I was close to murder.
 "She fell and landed on her head,"
 "No she fell and landed on her back,"
"I didn't see her fall, I just saw her faint"
 "She fell and slid feet first into the boards,"
 "An alien popped out of her chest and is now loose in the rink."

I made it to the bench just as they got her up and were moving her to the ice to lay down on a flat surface. I can honestly say, I am very glad at the diversity of her team. We had a paramedic, a plastic surgeon and a dentist helping her out. So now someone can help her with her medical problem, the surgeon can probably sew up the hole in her chest from the alien with minimum scarring, and the dentist can whiten her teeth for her before her picture gets splattered all over the news for surviving an alien attack.

Someone managed to find Kristen's cell phone and I promptly called my dad in a near panic. "Dad! Kristen was attacked by an alien. I don't think she is going to make it, but they called the paramedics and they are on their way."
"Is she okay?" said my dad, always the calm port in the storm.
"No dad! She has a huge gaping hole in her chest!" At this point I'm crying my eyes out while my sisters fellow teammates try to soothe me by patting my back with their massive gloves. still have the bruises to prove it.

The paramedics showed up and I had to hang up and talk to them and get all of our stuff together and find my purse which had somehow ran away. My dad called me about three times ever five minutes for updates, which did NOT help my state of mind.
After a near death experience in the ambulance where a flying saucer tried to beam up the entire vehicle, we made it to University Hospital's ER.

They wheeled her into Room 18. But after being in a small, enclosed room with Kristen they all left as fast as they could. I don't blame them one bit, and I wish I could have gone with them. Kristen smelled like a half-decomposed dead animal rotting and baking in the sahara desert. As one of the doctors left, he patted my shoulder and, while gasping for air, asked me if I could remove everything from the waste down. This is when I knew it was going to be a long night.

Working slowly, I removed her socks, shin guards, skates and padded pants. And as each piece of equipment was removed, I came closer to fainting from lack of oxygen.
I quickly gave up, spurted some excuse to Kristen about how I needed to call dad and left the room. The only problem was her stink had seeped into my clothing. The doctors started handing out gas masks lysol spray to anyone who HAD to enter her room.

After a while,  I think they were scared she was going to pass out from her own smell, so they wheeled her off for some cat scans and xrays, then forgot her in a hallway for a while, until the smell started seeping into some of the offices where the doctors were taking breaks and eating dinner/breakfast, so they had to put her back into her initial room. It got to the point where no one would enter her room. We sat there for six hours until finally someone got the courage to enter the room and explain Kristen wasn't attacked by an alien and had whiplash from falling on her clumsy feet, then discharged her.

We got home at fourish in the morning. I faceplanted into my bed and didn't move until 8:50- the LAST possible minute I had to get up and get to class for my midterm.I gave myself enough time to brush my teeth. Although my professor was understanding enough and is letting me take the test tomorrow morning instead, I can honestly say aliens, hockey players and University Hospital in Cleveland do not mix well with each other.

Creep

I feel like I have a creepy guy pheromone. For some ungoldy reason, the most unsavory men find me, ask me out, and then proceed to follow me around like a love-sick puppy until he moves into creepy stalker mode.  For all the men out there, I want to give you a handful of tips to be as uncreepy as possible.

1. Upon first meeting, DO NOT talk about how some girl accused you of raping her.
2. If some girl looses her mind for a minute and gives you her phone number, DO NOT call her four times in one night, text her twice and leave a voicemail. It's effin creepy and annoying.
3. Loose the weight. I'm not saying you have to have ripplin' muscles and a six pack, but if you are obese, and trying to hit up that hot cheerleader... you are setting yourself up for failure.
4. When a girl gives you the friend speech, do not call her bad names, do not cuss at her, or blow up her phone with rude text messages.
5. Do not give her the glare of death throughout all of class.
6. Do not follow behind her while she walks to her car, especially when she knows you park on the opposite side of campus.

When a dead animal is found under her car, even if it died a natural death and crawled under there to preserve it's body from getting mutilated by other predators, the girl is going to naturally think you put it there. I can honestly say, when the girl thinks creepy guy has reached the dead animal present stage, her first reaction will be to go to the police.  So, creepy guy- an eye for an eye. If I find another dead animal under my car, your car is going to get destroyed. Carrie Underwood is going to look like an amateur. It's going to be a fucking scavenger hunt to find all your car pieces. But I'll give you a hint to start somewhere. You can find one of your tires on the roof of Bowman hall.

 Let the games begin.