Deeper Meaning

Why do tattoos need to have deep meaning? Why are people always like, "I don't really care for tattoos but if they have a deeper meaning then I guess they're alright."???? And why does everyone who shows off their tattoos feel the need to justify the ink's existence and go on and on about its meaning?

Ugh. Please.

This whole focus on justification of body art and pontificating on "the meaning" just gets people into trouble. They try to justify shitty tattoos by saying, "oh but it means something!" Look, even though you're trying to tell me that your crappy little faded flower represents childhood innocence and reminds you never to give up your dreams, all I can see is a crappy little faded flower. Or the girl with the tribal butterfly that she and every other girl who ever walked into a tattoo parlor came out wearing tells you that it means "freedom" and blah blah blah. Whatever, who cares?

You don't have to justify it. Really. If you like it that's all that matters.

Another thing people do is assume that others won't accept their ink unless there's some deep and powerful story behind it. No. If they don't like tattoos they won't like yours, and nothing you can say will change that. Get used to it.

Many people get tattoos to symbolize life changes and momentous events. That's great! The problems arise when they think you need to hear about why there's a shooting star on their foot or a four leaf clover on their shoulder blade. No, I really don't need to hear about it. Your life events are important to you, but I really couldn't care less. If we don't know each other well (the very fact that you feel the need to justify your tattoos to me means we don't), I'm not interested in hearing personal details couched in pretentious terms of deeper symbolism.


Now don't get me wrong, I love tattoos. Freaking love them. If you've known me for five seconds you will know this. But I'm so sick of this "meaning" bullshit. My tattoos have meaning, but I don't feel the need to share what that is, since they're, you know, mine.

People have asked me what "the meaning" is behind them. Well, there's quite a bit of meaning, but it's a long and boring story and you're ultimately not going to care. I got them because I liked them, that's all you need to know, and it doesn't matter to me whether you like them or not.

It boggles my mind that people are so quick go into what their tattoos mean, and even flagrantly make things up. Like it's unacceptable to get a tattoo just because you like it, when in fact that is the main reason people get tattoos.

Maybe I'm just an overly private person (as I post this on the internet), but I don't want to share what my tattoos mean to me. It feels a bit vulgar and somehow cheapens everything. I don't want to go off listing them all and saying what they mean like a little kid explaining his toy collection. Which is of course, equally uninteresting.

I'm also afraid that once we start down that path, I'm going to have to justify why that meaning is important to me. Some people get all excited about "the meaning" that I don't want to let them down. It's disappointing, rather like learning that instead of getting that bitching scar from a barroom brawl you actually just fell off your bike as a kid and scraped your face. Yawn. Deeply personal things tend to be very anticlimactic to other people.

So no matter what your tattoos are, if you just thought the design was cool or it really does mean something, just shut the hell up. Nobody truly cares except you, which is good since you are the one wearing it.

Cosmo Sucks

I finally did it. I don't know why it took me so long. It was far easier than I imagined it would be.

I canceled my subscription to Cosmo.

When I was living alone as a moderately busy and lonely grad student, a discount magazine subscription leaflet came in the mail. Glancing through the options, I decided "Why the hell not?" and ordered a couple. It was only $10, and I remembered enjoying picking up a copy of Cosmo at the airport as fluff reading on the plane.

I'm not sure what changed. At first it was simply fun and a bit of escapism. Then I started realizing that shiny colorful pictures didn't make up for the fact that I didn't use (or believe I needed) about 95% of the products featured.

Make-up, perfume, and tacky jewelry weren't things I spent my money on. Well, okay, I own my share of tacky jewelry, but never were such purchases prompted by "style tips" I read in a magazine.

Even the hair-care and hairstyle articles didn't apply to me. Some of the little side tips have been useful, and I've gotten a few ideas from the poorly written hairstyle directions, but on the whole there's nothing there I can't find on the internet for free. Besides, they consider bra-strap length hair to be "long" and don't address anything longer than that.

Um, no. I have waist-length hair, and therefore most of the "long hair updos" don't work because I have too much hair. They also advocate using a fuckton of hair product, and tout styles as being "quick and easy, only 15 minutes!"

Bitch, please. If it takes me 15 minutes to do my hair, it better look fucking perfect, last all day, and elicit a complement from every damn person I meet. Quick and easy is two minutes tops, and that includes the time it takes to brush my hair. If I can brush and put up my waist-length hair in under two minutes and have it not look like shit, why the hell can't Cosmo have an article on that? It can't possibly be rocket science.

Oh, that's right. Cosmo does not exist to actually give women helpful information. Cosmo exists to sell shit. It all makes sense! I mean, I totally knew that, but for some reason I was laboring under the misapprehension that there would be useful shit mixed in with the not-so-cleverly disguised advertisements.

The last issue I received finally pushed me over the edge.

It was nothing but trite crap and I found most of the articles not only irrelevant to my life but highly condescending.

The "Why You Shouldn't Call Him Sweetie" article was incredibly offensive. I'm really only offended by one thing, and that's being talked down to (and the like). This article does nothing but talk down to the reader. I can totally understand not using names like "Fartybuns" or anything your grandmother called you, but "Honey"? Really?!?!?!

Pet names don't remind you of sex, and you should be thinking about sex ALL THE TIME. It is totally unacceptable to have a romantic relationship that is not about sex ALL THE TIME. Of course, there's no real explanation for why, except that it could possibly lead to less sex. Cosmo suggests you use pet names like "Stud" and "Loverboy" instead because they "remind you of sex". Barf. Yeah, because thinking about phrases on lame Valentine's Day cards totally gets me hot.

In past issues I've been instructed to not wear sweat pants at home, not wear a long shirt to sleep in, and to "know when my man is in the mood". Of course, there was no mention about men wearing sweat pants at home, and if he does it, why the fuck do I have to make sure I look cute at all times?! Fuck that shit. I'll sleep in whatever I damn well please, since I'm, you know, sleeping. As for knowing when my boyfriend wants sex? Easy. Always.

So I went online and canceled my subscription. I was rather sad that they didn't give me a fill in the blank box to tell them why I was canceling. Not that they would have taken me seriously or even looked at my answer, but it would have felt far more satisfying.

Maybe I'll subscribe to that backyard poultry magazine that keeps sending me free issue offers instead.

Cow 316

One of the cows I used in my master's research died today.

She went down in the parlor on Saturday night and had to be hauled to the sick pen in a sling. She spent the next three days there, and was euthanized this morning. For the first two days it looked like she might pull through, her attitude was good and her eye bright.

I don't know when she went downhill for good, but when I walked by the sick pen this morning she was stretched flat out on the ground. At first I thought she was dead, but then I heard a strange noise and saw her taking shallow, ragged breaths.

I left to do my work, and when I got back she was gone and loaded on the dairy's flatbed. The manager asked the vet if "it was done". The vet said, "It is. We loaded her onto your truck for you."

Her hip bones stuck up through the tarp, and a corner of hoof was visible on the side. When I walked into the vet clinic, her collar hung on the metal rail of the stanchion. The numbers will be replaced and it will be put on another cow, possibly a heifer.

I know she was just one of many, but for some reason her death really struck a chord. Perhaps it's because I felt like she was one of "my cows", perhaps it's because I saw her so close to death. Regardless, I fell like she should be remembered in some way other than a necropsy report.

Cow 316 was a good cow, a high producing cow, and once ate bluegrass straw for science.



She's here on the far right, wearing her number band.

In Case You Were Wondering...

Or care...

My new favorite blog is Hyperbole and a Half, and the cartoons made me want to draw my own. And since my bf built me a shiny new computer complete with MS Paint, I thought, "Why the hell not! I love cartoons!"

But that's nothing new. I always love cartoons!

Who doesn't love cartoons?

Besides, the best way to tell an otherwise ho-hum and mundane story is to jazz it up with pictures. Most of my stories are extremely boring, so MOAR PIKTURS!!!!

Imagined vs. Reality: Studying

This is how I study in my head. I am the picture of the perfect student. My textbook is open, my pen furiously scratches notes as my happy little brain absorbs all the wonderful knowledge. In my head, I also wear glasses. Awesome scholarly glasses.



If only...


This is how I look in real life. I vaguely look over my notes, the textbook doing nothing but reminding me what class I'm supposed to be studying for. It's unlikely that I've brushed my hair and it's even more unlikely that I am wearing different clothes than the day before.
I hold my notes in front of my face, hoping that some of the words jump off the page of their own accord and implant themselves into my brain. The pen does nothing but lie there like a dead fish, and I'm slouching so much it looks like I'm actively trying to injure myself.



Let's just say that I'm not the best studier.




Footnote: How is it that I've never discovered MS Paint before?!?!?! This is fun!!!!!

Chiropractor- AKA The Witch Doctor

I love my chiropractor. He makes my life better and my spine function as it should.

Every now and again I get muscle spasms in my back. Doesn't sound so bad, right? Wrong! These spasms render me partially paralyzed by making the most innocuous things (like sitting down) unbearably painful. I end up either half lying on the couch in a moderate amount of pain or shuffling around like a not-too-bright zombie.

Going to the regular doctor does nothing but score me some vicodin and cyclobenzoprene. While drugs are nice, they don't really do anything to fix the problem. They just make me semi-functional and slightly loopy. Eventually the muscles relax enough for me to go about daily life

But the chiropractor makes the pain go away completely! We like to call him The Witch Doctor. He passes this thing over you that squeaks if you're "out" anywhere. Then he finds out exactly where (aided by the squeaky thing), and once the spot is located, he contorts you around until things pop back into place. Snap! Crack! Pop! It feels soooo good. This is repeated until there are no more squeaks. You are pronounced "clear" and sent home to take it easy for a day or two. Then you are better! The pain sorts itself out and subsides.

I need to see this guy about twice a year. I can usually put myself back "in", but if several things build up I need him to do it. Of course, the build up of multiple issues results in lower back pain. Why? Because everything seems to tie in there. Of course it does! The lower back muscles respond my seizing up and refusing to let you do the most basic tasks like pooping or blowing your nose without violent protest.

This time I was out practically everywhere. First he cracked 3 of my fingers and my wrist. After that, my entire spine was set back in. Finally, my right foot was adjusted. My spine cracked so loud, crack crack crack crack alllllll the way up. Felt so amazingly good, though. I could just feel everything come back into proper place.

I am nearly back to full functioning, and it feels amazing. Currently, I am reveling in the act of sitting on the couch without hurting. Soon I'll be able to walk normally instead of looking like there's a particularly large stick up my ass. It's wonderful. I'd give him a hug and big wet kiss if that wasn't so, you know, weird and deeply inappropriate.

Air Freshening

It's the middle of winter, and consequently the windows have not been open for months. Getting a tad stale in here, you know? I'd love some fresh air, but the power bill is high enough as it is without making the crappy heaters cope with freezing air.

What to do?

Vinegar!

Seriously, I set out custard cups with about 1/2" of white vinegar (the really cheap kind) in every room of the house. It smells like vinegar for a day or two, then it just smells clean! Wonderful.

The caveat to that is that the vinegar must be replaced or simply dumped after 5-6 days. Why? It starts smelling like feet, that's why. Especially in areas of high odor content, like the bathroom and right next to the laundry basket.

I don't really like scented air freshener. It smells like chemicals (gee I wonder why) and doesn't totally get rid of the stale smell, just kinda masks it for awhile. So the bowls of vinegar thing is right up my alley.

Now I just need to find a good formula for a spray air freshener. Something that I can use around the cat's litter box (she has tummy problems that lead to extra stinky shits occasionally) without deterring her from using it. So no citrus, basically.