My Eyeball is a No Fly Zone

This is what really happened:

This is how it happened in my head:

I am way too germaphobic for this kind of nonsense. 

Have you seen fly eyes? Those buggers see from like six thousand perspectives and still manage to land themselves in the moist death zone that is the human eyeball. 

They must be drunk. There isn't any other explanation. 

Did you know flies either spit or poop (or both) almost every time they land? That's right kids, Bill spat and/or defecated in my eyeball, and someday, if you work hard enough, maybe he will in yours too.

But no, really. I hate flies.
Hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate (bzzt) them.

Piranha Pants

Pictured above: pants.
Hahaha. Haha. Ha.
Hah.
No.
Really.

It's days like this when I remember that I have no artistic potential whatsoever. That orange lump up there is sporting a button, zipper, and pocket, but if you guessed "menacing piranha eye", "excessively pointy, man-devouring piranha teeth", and "terribly rendered piranha gills"... well, you'd be wrong. But I mean, I get it. And being understood feels great probably.

I have made numerous attempts to update. I have brainstormed ideas, drawn doodles, and written blurbs, and ten out of ten dentists agree, they have been absolutely terrible.

Buuuut not updating is also kind of terrible, so I'm going to make myself do it anyway.
I am going to write the post I intended to write, it is going to include doodled pants, and I'm going to make sure they aren't of the flesh-eating variety.

Because piranha pants are really only well suited for men who no longer want to be men (who also can't afford the surgery that doesn't leave you at risk of also having your legs eaten off).

That was a terrible joke.

Admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery.

What Makes You Beautiful (Hopefully It's Not Just This One Thing)

Geez guys stop de-beautifying everybody with your serenades, gosh.

(Disclaimer: if you live under a rock and somehow have not heard "What Makes You Beautiful" by One Direction, this post will be significantly less humorous than it is attempting to be.)

(Double disclaimer: I like One Direction. Please don't kidnap/murder/say mean things to me.)

How Margins Work in High School

First, there's the assignment. It usually goes something like this:

(bushiness of hair and roundness of glasses directly correlates to teaching ability. If you have these traits, you pretty much have to be a teacher.)

In grade eight:

It won't fillllllllll

And, eventually, grade twelve rolls around, and your essays start to look more like:

It won't fitttttt BLEED PAPER, BLEED, BLEED MY ARTICULATE WORD CHOICES BLEEEEEDDDDD I need bigger paper. 

Kinder Surprise is my favourite.

Don't get me wrong, I love chocolate.

However, they make for pretty crummy gifts. Not that I'm complaining, I mean, come on. Free chocolate. But chocolate is like that gift you get for people you don't really know, or when you want to put all of three seconds thinking about what to get someone.

Also, it's not so bad when you know chocolate is coming. But when it's all wrapped up and pretty, it could be anything. But then it's chocolate and you're like, oh.

This Christmas, I was given at least 80 dollars redeemable for, if not already in the form of, chocolate. For those of you keeping score at home (read: nobody), that's a lot of chocolate.

Also, yes, my arm extends from my mouth. I'm sensitive about it.

Unprofessional Blabber #4: I'M SO ALONE

Now that it's been nearly an entire year since I've posted, I think it's pretty safe to say that I'm more or less alone with my thoughts in here. (Not that I had readers anyway... Stop judging me. Actually, who am I talking to? I just said there was no one else here. This is ridiculous. This bracket tangent is getting too long, stop it Vincent. You're a terrible blogger.)

I'm feeling really overwhelmed right now. I think I am going through my man period. (No that's not a thing don't worry about it. Well, it kind of is; men have been observed to have fluxes of testosterone levels throughout the day, which can lead to emotional irregularity, much like a period. But to a lesser degree, and men don't have to bleed. Suckers.)

My to-do list: university applications, decide on a faculty (it's either Arts, Sciences, or Business, guys, don't worry, clearly I've got this narrowed down), scholarship essays, write my freaking book, do the online courses I put off until the abstract idea of "free time", and start my winter break homework. Also, I was planning on reading ahead, because I obviously have so much leisure time and I'm not stressed out at all.

Sarcasm is hard to convey over the internet. Thankfully no one has to hear it but me. Why am I even publishing this? I don't make sense.

I feel like I'm obligated to doodle something. But I don't even have to keep anyone's attention anymore. Also, what did I even talk about? I am definitely going to regret publishing this later.

PUBLISH.



Oh look the sketch is too big for the box. OH WELL, LOOK AT ME NOT CARING! Okay now stop staring.

Unprofessional Blabber #3: Longest Sunday of my Life

I arrived back from Germany, Austria, and the Czech Republic on Sunday. It was kind of a long day.

First, we had to leave the hotel at 4 am in the morning, as well as having to deal with Daylights Savings time again. (Once in Canada, now in Europe) I very wisely decided that people don't need sleep and stayed up all night despite a long, exhausting day of walking and sightseeing, and arrived at the airport looking like a pile of poop composed of regurgitated poop.

There, we ate our boxed breakfasts because we were there two hours before our flight. They composed of plastic wrapped vomit that was labeled "sandwich", an apple that looks like it had already been eaten, and an orange that was more peel than fruit. I took two bites of a sandwich and threw them away, ate around the holes in the apple, and ate half of the remains of my orange after my friend helped me peel it by tearing off the peel along with half the orange. I was thoroughly dissatisfied.

To appease me, one of my friends gave me a little plastic baggie with four enormous chocolate granola bars in them. I was ridiculously thrilled to get them, but stupidly stored them inside my breakfast box. After having "finished" my breakfast, I then stupidly threw the box away with the bars inside them. By the time I had realized my mistake and walked briskly back to the trash can where we disposed of our boxes, a suspicious dirty looking man already had them looped across his arm as though he had just come from the mall instead of the waste bin. I decided he could just keep the granola bars.

Then we reached security, where I got beeped three times. First, I forgot to take off my belt. Then, I forgot my watch. The third time, I made it through the metal detector only to have my carry-on stopped. I had left two water bottles in my backpack, one of which I threw out immediately. The other I asked to pour out because I wanted to keep the bottle, but the security guard just told me to take my bag and leave. I was obviously too stupid to be a terrorist. At this point I had half the airport line laughing at me, so I walked away pretty quickly.

Two or three hours later I was in London, and nauseous out of my mind. I was dumb enough to nap on the plane, something I had never been able to do because I would always wake up so that my body could puke out my intestines.

Eight hours at Heathrow to kill. Eight hours trapped, nauseous, inside an airport. Eight.
We finally took off at 5:30 pm on what would be a nine hour and fourty minute flight back to Vancouver, on which I was determined not to sleep.
I got nauseous anyway.

I spent a period of time on the plane singing "I am not nauseous, lalalala, I will not throw up, lalalala."
Also, the smell of airplane food makes me nauseous.
Nauseous. Nauseous nauseous nauseous.
I'm not quite sure how many times I can get away with saying nauseous. I probably should have stopped after twice.

*Slight exaggeration. Very slight.