T.G.I. Hagman!

I just spent an embarrassingly long amount of time trying to write a Hagman-specific cover of Gary Puckett and the Union Gap's "Young Girl", but couldn't make it past: "Young Hagman, get out of my mind, My love for you is way out of line, Better run Hag, You're much too drunk fag." Which I'd like to think is proof positive I'm still in the throes of Tulane Chris Fever (not entirely unlike March Madness) and I need to go back to bed. I apologize for having to move our investigation to Monday. But in the mean time—T.G.I. Hagman!

As of 8:25am on July 22 2011, Larry Hagman is...alive! And beneath his perfume and makeup—he's just a baby in disguise. Sigh. Alright, I'm going to go with God. See you Monday.

I'm choking on that doja sweet and sipping on that sizzurp

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Sham...Wow

I know it's generally not a good sign when you're taking life advice from Rihanna's clavicle, but I decided to adopt "never a failure, always a lesson" as my mantra this week. Because I have learned me a whale of a life lesson. Specifically, if you eat Chinese food that's been sitting out on a counter for 24 hours, you will get food poisoning. And it will be Christ awful. And you will spend days on end alternating between handling "explosive bathroom scenarios" and watching two seasons of "Lie to Me" on Netflix while trying to find a position to curl up in that doesn't make it feel like you're about to vomit your spleen.

I'd like to tell you that I didn't refrigerate said Chinese food because my fridge was broken and I was desperate for food or some shit that would even remotely make sense, but honestly, my fridge was full and I really didn't feel like cleaning it out. So I just left my leftovers on the counter. And then the next afternoon when I was hungry and walked past the kitchen, I saw the food and was all, "WELL HELLO, OLD FRIEND," and dove right in, same fork that had been stewing in the bowl all night and all. And you know why? Because I'm not that intelligent. I'm just not. I can bullshit an A+ paper on literally anything and get through school with flying colors, but I have all the common sense of an Autistic toddler. I swear to God I'm not making this for comedic effect, but I walked face first into a door not 20 minutes ago. Talia once summed me up perfectly when she said, "Meg, you are the dumbest smart person I have ever met in my entire life." Fair. Fair and astute.

So, yes. I'm feeling better, but still sort of like I might explode at any given second. I think it's going to be a long, long time before I eat anything with ginger or snow peas in it in again. Jesus, Mary, mother of God, I wish I hadn't just said ginger or snow peas. Twice. I could seriously burst into tears right now. OK, LET'S RAPIDLY CHANGE THE SUBJECT, SHALL WE? I'm at my parent's house and this is sitting on their coffee table:

It's an informational DVD that came with a hair product my mom bought on The Q, but I spent an uncomfortable three minutes thinking it was some sort of touchy-feely learn-to-make-love-again DVD that they neglected to hide before I came over and very seriously I thought I was going to have to gouge out my eyes and kill myself. But it's not. So, hey HEY hey! Small victories.

...Well, now I'm thinking about snow peas and my parents having sex. RAPID CHANGE OF SUBJECT AGAIN! So you know how I have this ~*MyStErY hEaLtH pRoBLeM!*~, and I'm crazy like a fox, and am just generally, as a human being, broken in half? Well, that's all good and fun, but my health insurance runs out next month and I'm fucked. I need a few procedures, physical therapy, and I HAVE EMOTIONS!!!1 therapy, and it keeps me up at night trying to think of what I'm going to do about it. I could COBRA my parent's health policy, sure, but that would cost about $500 a month. I could get an independent policy, but I might as well be an 85-year-old meth addict with AIDS and a pack-a-day smoking habit for how uninsurable I am. I don't make enough money to get coverage through the Freelancer's Union, and my parents are getting mighty sick of this little HAHA-Meg's-following-her-dreams-and-we-all-help-her-out-because-ZOMG-artistic-passion-LOL! thing, as evidenced by my mom's new nickname for the blog: 2 Burdens, 1 Blog. (Which is actually pretty clever, BUT STILL.) (Slash I don't know what Chris ever did...)

I know it's easy to disregard my anxiety about all of this because I'm not exactly an orphan hustling on the streets for a crust of bread and a few shillings, but my parents—while still 100% supportive of my career—really have made it clear that they're tired of bailing me out. Which makes me feel like a total asshole and like maybe I should say fuck it, put this little dream on the back burner and get a 9-5 for the insurance. But at the same time, I can't help but to think we've come too far to quit now. I'm completely confident that one day I'll be able to fully support myself with my writing, but that day just isn't today. And unfortunately, I'm a hot fucking mess today. I need health insurance. It's time to get creative. And that's when Pete, of sexual-misadventure-essay winner Pete, shot me an email to see how I was feeling and casually mentioned that if I need health insurance, he would marry me.

Now...I'm 99.9% sure that Pete was just kidding, but I'm also 100% sure that I was not kidding when I responded: yes, yes, a thousand times yes! I genuinely think a sham insurance marriage is an amazing solution to my problem. And Pete seems cool. He bought some merch and hooked up in an AU formal lounge once. That makes him good enough to marry in my book. Unfortunately, I think my "WHEN'S THE SOONEST YOU CAN MEET ME AT THE COURT HOUSE I HAVE A WHITE DRESS FROM HIGH SCHOOL GRADUATION THAT IF I DON'T BREATHE I CAN STILL FIT IN MAYBE I SHOULD BUY SPANX JUST IN CASE EITHER WAY I SHOULD BUY MY BUS TICKETS RIGHT NOW IF I TAKE AN 8AM BUS AND GET IN AT 12 WOULD YOU MAYBE WANT TO GET LUNCH???" response thoroughly scared him away. Drag.

My next thought was to gay-marry Eileen. Not only is Eileen one of my oldest and best friends, she has a stupid good insurance policy, a decently-sized apartment in New York with a sick view, a building that allows pugs, and one time she fixed a 20-year-old VHS copy of Sound of Music while high as a kite with an eyeglasses repair kit. I mean, not to sound gay, but I could fucking create a life with that woman. It would be a privilege and an honor. There are a few problems, though: a.) gay marriages aren't recognized in New York; b.) marrying Eileen might raise a few eyebrows concerning my sexual orientation; c.) both of those eyebrows would belong to my mother; and d.) that's basically just the plot to Chuck and Larry minus the heartwarming Dan Aykroyd Speech at the end and whole widower plot line. So unless the state of New York opens its mind and Dan Aykroyd takes a break from his busy schedule of Botox and nothing, I think my Eileen plan is out. And it truly is my loss, madam.

Next idea: Tulane Chris. Status: Student. GOD DAMNIT.

Next: Alex. Status: Student. GOD DOUBLE DAMNIT.

Next: Andrew of the Great Juno Debate Fame. Status: Won't drink from the same water bottle as me, so something tells me he won't jump at the opportunity of a sham marriage. Asshole.

And every single other person I know is in a relationship, so fuck me.

So not to be creepy, but I keep coming back to Pete. And I know I responded to his jaunty little "HAHA wouldn't it be funny if?" email with a lock of my hair and the name of five public notaries within a city block of his office, but I feel like marrying me wouldn't be the worst thing he'd ever do. Or anyone, really! Maybe there's another insured gentleman out there that I'm not even thinking of! And that's why I sat down tonight and whipped up a list of 23 reasons why you should marry me:

1.) Got a girlfriend? Cool. This isn't a Shakespeare play, I'm not trying to fall in love with you—I just need a $10 co-pay.

2.) That being said, I got some tig 'ole bitties. I'm sorry, it had to be said.

3.) I refuse to move in with you, which I would interpret as a good thing considering the number of friendships I've ruined as a result of living with friends.

4.) I have a rapier wit. But I don't like to talk on the phone. And again, I won't live with you. So...here's hoping you gchat.

5.) One day you can refer to me in passing as your First Wife. That's kind of glamorous, right?

6.) Two words: JEW HOLIDAYS!!!!1

7.) I have a decent DVD collection.

8.) A very kind reader is sending me a new Brita pitcher. Yeah. Being a blogger is kiiiind of a big fucking deal and if I were you, I'd get in on this obscene fortune and fame ride as soon as humanly possible.

9.) Because this just happened:

Dad: What are you writing? Your reasons why someone should marry Meg McBlogger?

Me: Yeah, but I can't think of anything.

Dad: That's not true, I bet you have at least ten by now!

Me: Yeah, but one of them is literally, "I can carry a tune, question mark? I don't know, period."

Mom: .........You have ties to Jägermeister? Just tell him you can get him all the Jägermeister he wants.

10.) I have ties to Jägermeister. I can get you all the Jägermeister you want.

11.) The next McBlogger family vacation is this fall—time to shag ass. (Slash as of now I think they have me sleeping in a storage closet, so I also need an insurance husband to justify why we should get a house with three bedrooms instead of two bedrooms and a dungeon in the basement for old, single Meg and her hollow womb. Kthnx.)

12.) I have a convertible. I named him Kevin. I don't really consider that to be a selling point, but my dad told me to add it. So here we are.

13.) I was dicking around on Wikipedia last night and put it in Afrikaans for funzies and now I can't figure out how to switch it back to English. Again, that's also not really a selling point, but I just feel like it's something my sham husband should be able to help me with.

14.) You can have Evie as my dowry. She's small, portable, light in the hoof. All in all, not a bad deal.

15.) Mom: Instead of finding a random person or a gay guy to marry, why don't you just approach someone you're actually interested in?

Me: Because I don't want to have sex with my sham husband. It's just prostitution at that point, right?

Mom: 'Eh, everyone's a prostitute. As the old saying goes, "when two people are having sex, someone's getting fucked."

16.) I'll have sex with you.

17.) I have zero qualms about having a child, putting her in pageants, and spending her prize money on Bartles & Jaymes and chicken kickers.

18.)
This box was in my parent's kitchen tonight and I pointed out that you could use it to make a sick robot costume. I'm full of amazing ideas like that!

19.) Then Evie crawled in, it was adorable, and I started calling her R2Eve2. Bee-bop-boop:


20.) Richard and Diane would be your in-laws. They obviously insisted I add this one, but let's also not pretend like I'm not sitting in their house right now on a Wednesday night for no God given reason when I have an apartment of my own.

21.) My dad volunteered to cover the expenses of a modest City Hall ceremony. Why? Because even when desperately trying to pawn me off on a stranger, I'll always be his little girl.

22.) We can get one of those $400 divorces you always see advertised on billboards in se habla Español neighborhoods. Because I am in no way trying to put airs on here.

23.) Beautiful, beautiful blog fodder.

In the immortal words of Kenny Ortega and Zefron, "this could be the start of something new." meg@2birds1blog.com.

Sick

As a dog. Lame. But before I down this NyQuil cocktail and go back to bed, here's an adorable video of a turtle on a roomba! A-TEE HEE HEE! I'd totally give credit to the reader who originally sent this to me, but I mysteriously can't find the email. God I suck today. And I'm breaking out. And I need chapstick. And my throat hurts. And I'm hungry. And my bangs are at an awkward length. And I'm out of eye makeup remover. And the NyQuil is kicking in.

Welp, night!

So. How was your weekend?

FAIR WARNING!!!! Today's blog post contains material of a frank and graphic nature that you in no way want to know about. Like, in a Boss #1 kind of way. Trust me, you just really don't want to know. Which sucks for you, because I'm about to tell you. Because Saturday was one of the more painful and mortifying experiences of my life and if I don't talk about it here and exorcise those demons...well, I'm going to have to go back to therapy. And that shit's expensive. So here we go.

(You've been warned.)

As I've been talking about more and more on the old blog, I haven't been feeling well recently. I've been having "tummy problems," shall we say. At first I thought I had food poisoning, then I thought I had an ulcer and Saturday morning I thought I had the devil in me. I woke up at 9am, saw what time it was, laughed out loud, and immediately went back to bed. A few hours later, I woke up at 11 in the worst pain of my entire life. It felt like gas pains, plus period cramps, divided by a roundhouse kick to the womb by Chuck Norris and then just shoot yourself in the face because you're still nowhere close. I ran to the bathroom expecting to have an..."explosive bathroom situation"...but nothing happened. I just sat there doubled-over in pain wishing to god that something, anything would happen to make it go away. I had never felt pain like this in my entire life. It hurt so badly I felt like I was going to throw up. I was hot and cold and seeing stars and was scared I was going to pass out. Yet, nothing was happening. Where had I seen this before...? And then it struck me: Oh my fucking lord―did I not know I was pregnant?! This situation could not have been more textbook IDKIWP if I was a 21-year-old TGI Friday's hostess slash psych major at the local JC. A surge of fear shot through me, the likes of which I can not describe. And it wasn't fear for the child's safety (although let's not lie, had I been pregnant, it would have come out wearing cowboy boots, a fringe dress and sitting on a crescent moon because that thing would have been pure Miller High Life) and it wasn't for my own safety; I was scared because when you get right down to it, I am far too lazy to deliver my own child. I had really been looking forward to lazing around my apartment that day and the thought of having to call 911 and go through labor and push the damn thing out and deal with it and the after birth and cutting the umbilical cord and going to the hospital and all of the emotional brouhaha all sounded really...well, time consuming to me. Luckily a few seconds later the...explosive bathroom situation...I was waiting for finally came.

I was relieved, to say the least, until I turned around and saw the aftermath. I looked in the bowl and saw (and I'm so sorry for this) a large a mount of blood. "Hm..." I thought to myself, "That's...not...right." But, frankly, not wanting to deal with it, I adopted a "go with god" attitude, flushed and crawled back into my bed to recover. Unfortunately, the pain didn't subside and neither did the...explosive bathroom situation. From the hours of 12-6, I alternated writhing around my bed in pain and running to the bathroom to take something that rhymes with "schmoody schmiaherra." Unfortunately during the sixth hour, it stopped being schmiaherra and was just schmood, so I finally gave in and recognized that perhaps something was wrong. Then I did the only thing I know how to do in moments like that; I called my mom.

My mom told me to go to the clinic and see if they could fit me in, to which I informed her that walking anywhere that wasn't to my bathroom or directly to the Pearly Gates was not an option. Canceling family dinner plans (sorry Bec!) they hopped in the car and took me to the clinic. (If I'm going to shit my pants in anybody's car, it's going to be my parent's and not a cabbie's. Don't judge me.) Unfortunately the clinic was closed for renovations and seeing how much pain I was in, they decided to take me to the ER. Now, being in Dupont, there was a cornucopia of ERs to choose from. We could have gone to Georgetown, GW, Sibley, Holy Cross...the world was our oyster. However my parents, bless their hearts, decided to drive me back to Olney and take me to Montgomery General, that way I could spend the night at home after I was released and be under their watchful eye. (Yes, I realize I will be 25-years-old in April. No, I am not ashamed of myself.)

I was admitted to the ER rather quickly, got hooked up to an IV of fluids and was treated by an extremely nice and soothing PA who introduced me to my new best friend: Mr. Intravenous Morphine. God I miss him. He made me feel like candy was flowing through my veins and after seven hours of poor man's labor pains, it was much appreciated. Mrs. Lovely PA then informed me that she was reeeeeeeally sorry, but she had to do a rectal exam. Honestly, she could have told me she had to do a nationally televised breast exam and I wouldn't have given two shits at that point. "Just roll me over," I told her. And she did. And pulled down my underoos. And went to town. When she was done she walked away to look at the results, came back in and with her back towards me said, "Well you don't have any hemorrhoids or fissures, but there is quite a bit of blood there and that's―" she turned around and saw me laying on my side, bare ass still out to the world. "Oh. Ms. McBlogger, you...you can put your pants back on now." "CAN YOU DO IT FOR MEEEEE??" I slurred while pointing to my butt. She then proceeded to pull up my underwear and roll me back onto my back for me like I was a newborn and she was changing my diaper. "THANK YOUUUU!!!!!" I cooed with a big smile on my face.

After that she called my parents back in the room, told them we needed to wait for the blood results before taking any further steps and left. It was then that I noticed a male nurse staring at me from across the way. "Shit. He's hot," I thought to myself. Now let me tell you something about how I looked at that moment―not well. I hadn't showered since Friday morning, I didn't have AN stitch of makeup on, I was cracked out on morphine and I had a giant zit directly in the center of my forehead. But like, directly in the middle. It couldn't have been more perfect if you had a compass and a level. The male nurse and I locked eyes and it struck me, man he looks familiar. Where had I seen―oh my god. I know him. I know him because I used to hook up with him. You know him because I wrote about him last New Year's Eve. And there he was. A nurse in the hospital―of allllll the hospitals we could have gone to―where we ended up. I couldn't tell you the last time I saw this kid but I did not want him to see me now. I closed my eyes and my face turned bright red. He saw me. There was no way of getting out of this.

"Oh my god," I muttered. "What's wrong?" my mom asked. "I'm...having a situation." I said through clenched teeth. "What kind of situation? Do you need the bathroom? Should I call the nurse?" "Nope...Just let it burn. Just let this moment continue to burn." My parents looked at each other in confusion. "What do you mean burn? What's burning?" "I need someone who will understand the weight of this moment. Give me my phone. I need to call Teresa." "You can't make a call! What's going on??" I then (loosely) told my parents what was going on and they, rightfully, got quite a kick out of it. "Oh who cares Meghan, it was a million years ago." Which is true. And I really shouldn't have cared. I think he's still dating that chick but I have zero interest in him and I'm completely over it. But intrinsically, when you see someone you used to hook up with (especially if not hooking up anymore wasn't your idea) you want to have just lost 20 pounds and be feeding your hot bike messenger boyfriend olives off of your Academy Award because that's an average day-in-the-life when you run into him again. You do not want to be in the hospital with a case of explosive, infectious diarrhea looking like a Proactiv before. That does not communicate, "You know you miss this."

If it weren't for Mr. Intravenous Morphine giving me a vein massage at that moment, I would ripped that shit out and run for the hills. All I could do was lay there and wait for him to come over and say something. "You should throw the blanket over your head, maybe he'll think you're dead and move on," my mom suggested. Best call of the night. I pulled out my pony-tail and started to re-do it. "Oh honey," my mom said, "I don't think trying to fix your hair is going to do anything at this point." Second best call of the night.

A few minutes later, he came in and said hello. It was pretty much your standard awkward-catching-up-with-someone-you-haven't-seen-since-they-were-fingerblasting-you-on-a-couch conversation, except, you know, I was in the hospital with a case of explosive, infectious diarrhea and my parents were watching. So just think about how awkward and horrifying that would be and it was exactly like that.

"So you're not in New York anymore?"
"Nope." My explosive diarrhea and I moved back to DC.
"So what are you up to?"
"Uhh, living in Dupont. Designing. Writing. Same old." Shitting my brains out, not washing my face, clearly only shaving my legs every other week.
"Well, we should hang out some time."
"Definitely!" When I'm not having a butt abortion.
"Facebook me, haha."
"I'll do that." Please don't tell anyone...

After he left my mom looked at me and gushed, "Oh Meghan, he's cute!" IS HE MOM?! IS HE?! Well why don't you just slap some rouge on me, hike up my hospital gown and tell him he has your blessing to administer my next rectal exam, huh?!? Look at what a tasty dish I am; how could he resist?!

After that the PA came back in and explained that I indeed had a severe case of infectious schmiarreha. Given how I'd been feeling the past few weeks, this could be an episode of a bigger problem like Chrone's or Ulcerative colitis, but for the time being I'd be fine with fluids and antibiotics. Fine that is, except for my pride. For which I'd need another round of liquid morphine that, thank god, I got. Right before I was about to be discharged, my mom remembered that I never gave a stool sample and was about to say something to the PA when I turned to her and under my breath manically hissed―"SHUT UP DIANE! JUST SHUT UP." Knowing me and my luck, I would obviously have to give ex-hook up my stool sample, or he'd pass me coming out of the bathroom or any number of mortifying scenarios that I can't even think of. And as much as I understood that my mom was worried and just wanted all of our bases to be covered, that stool sample could have held the cure to fucking AIDS and I wouldn't have given it up. Thankfully, I think I adequately conveyed a look of "IM'MA CUT YOU" to my mom and she piped down and I was finally released. Sans stool sample.

As I sat in the car waiting for my dad to get me bananas, rice, applesauce and toast from the Giant, I called Teresa. She picked up, "If you're calling to let me know Mr. Whiteford from middle school is on Facebook, I already know," (Third best call of the night.) No, that was not why I was calling. Instead I told her what had just happened and as I'd needed her to, she laughed and laughed and laughed at my misfortune. "The thing is," she said, "of all the people this would ever happen to, of course it's you." That's also what I needed to hear. Feeling better, my parents took me home where I lethargically oozed around the house with glassy eyes, repeatedly asking my dad for "hugsies."

All in all, not a horrible weekend.

Mom, I swear I have no intentions of cooking or consuming crystal meth.

Now, people have reacted poorly when I've brought this up before, but, I stand that .05% of me kinda wants to try crystal meth once, just to see what all the fuss is all about. I don't want to do the physical shooting-up part...or deal with that whole addiction/withdrawal/hurt everyone you love/destroy your entire life jazz. I just want to know what it feels like. Once! Just to know. And then be done with it. If I could go to the hospital, have a doctor shoot-up for me and then take a "totes-magically-not-addicted-yay!" pill, that would be ideal. And only .05% of me feels this way. 99.95% of me thinks I'm full of shit. But you can't tell me that when you're watching Intervention, a teeny-tiny, itty-bitty, insignificantly small part of you isn't thinking, "Well, yes Kristie is bare-ass naked running around her shed/apartment throwing ramen noodles at her dyked-out sister screaming about the devil, but what feels that good that got you here in the first place?"

Intervention isn't alone in making me meth-curious, however. If I turn into a meth-faced, hillbilly, cousin-lovin', mountain-dwelling, straight-up drug addict, I place the blame squarely on our government and their incessant warnings. Here me out.

I've been sick for the past week with either really bad allergies or just my usual chronic tonsil/sinus Tiny Tim-like illness. Normally I'd be all, "meh, just let nature run it's course," and let myself dangle on the fringes of death, but I have plans to go to New York this weekend that I really don't want to back-out of. Thus, I've decided to be "responsible" and try this "resting" thing and take "medicine" that one gets at "a" "pharmacy."

For the record, cold medicines and I are not friends. We're not even frienemies. I hate them and they hate me. One of my personal mottos is "I don't fuck with the Quils." You see, during freshman welcome week in college, we got a bag of freebies which contained samples of NyQuil gelcaps. So, when I (of course) got sick within the first two days of moving in, I downed a bunch of free NyQuil and took a nap. What transpired after that can only be described as the worst NyQuil trip in history. I have seriously never felt that creepy in my entire life. I woke up from my nap, heart racing, sweating like a fat kid at soccer camp, completely freaking the fuck out. I had put this disgusting hippie celestial-themed tapestry on the bottom of the bunk bed above me so I didn't have to stare at springs all night, and I remember being like "holy shit, the stars man! The stars are moving! What in the fuck?! The staaaarrssss!"

Then I shot up, turned to my two roommates sitting at their respective desks and incoherently shouted, "I'M NOT GOING TO DO MY HOMEWORK! I WAS GOING TO DO IT. BUT I THINK I SHOULD GO BACK TO BED! I'M NOT DOING MY HOMEWORK! SO I'M GOING TO GO BACK TO BED NOW!!!! GOOD BYE! HOMEWORK. NOT DOING IT."

They just nodded all wide-eyed like, "Ok psycho, go back to bed. We just met you, we don't really don't care if you do your homework or not."

Ugh. Ever since then, I don't fuck with the Quils. Or any cold medicine for that matter. But, I really want to go to New York this weekend. So yesterday after work, I went to CVS to pick up some über maximum strength, show no mercy, definitely knock me out, border-line rohypnol level Sudafed.

And guess what I learned from my trip to CVS? You can totally make meth with Sudafed! Who knew?? I thought that's what the Quils were for, but apparently Sudafed will fuck you up just as good! I had to ask for it at the front register and felt completely shady about it. The cashier also kept bringing back the wrong kind and I had to keep being like, "no I want the maximum strength. No, not the extra strength, maximum strength. And that val-pak of D batteries. And this draino. And cat-litter...thnx."

It's just an entirely skeezy situation. You have to give them your license, which they scan and then you have to sign this scary electronic letter that's like, "I totes swear that I have a stuffy nose and won't cook meth with this." And of course I accidentally checked the "I do not agree" box by accident. You would think that the first box under the letter would be "I agree" because, you know, give me the benefit of the doubt, but no, "I do not agree" is the first box. So then I had to awkwardly be like, "oh my god I'm so sorry! I meant to click I agree!" and then crack a meth joke. Which apparently they don't like when you do...

But all of these scary government warnings and various hoops to jump through have me wondering—how the hell do you even cook meth in the first place? I mean, I got straight A's in high school Chemistry and am for all intensive purposes an intelligent person, but I don't think I would be able to figure out how to concoct a batch of crystal meth. According to various Datelines and 20/20s I've seen, there seems to be a lot of beakers and measuring and...science involved. How do these hillbillies manage to do it? It's almost impressive. And then I become irritated that a bunch of cousin-fuckin' rednecks are smart enough to figure it out, but I'm not. It's like a dare. So then suddenly I'm back at my apartment with newly purchased maximum strength Sudafed googling "how to cook crystal meth," and "meth ingredients."

Had the government not made it seem like such an impossible feat, maybe I wouldn't be so curious! And all of those hoops and warnings only make the drug seem all the more intriguing! It's basic psychology: tell someone that they can't have something and naturally they'll suddenly want it more. And when there's an A&E show glorifying it, they'll want it even more!

But again, this is only .05% of me talking.