I’m very selective of my friends. I actually get along with most people that I meet, unless you’re a bigot or you bring a shit ton of drama to my life. I put enough stress on myself without needing anyone to add more with their bullshit as well. What really amazes me is how people can claim not to be gossips or full of drama yet always want to know everything that’s going on and have to fight over everything.

Me? I’m a gossip.

Oh yeah.

I say that in fun, of course. Actually this entire post is for fun because I came up with this nifty mathematical equation to go right along with it. You see, the key to dealing with people like this is to just not give a fuck. The max level for not giving a fuck, I believe, is a ten. At level ten your house could be burning down around you and someone could be dramatically screaming at you to get out of the house, but you just don’t give a fuck. At level five you moderately give a fuck but still probably won’t move that fast, you’ve got to collect some belongings before they catch aflame and you can be bothered to call the fire department. At level zero you lose all ability to not give a fuck and become extremely stressed out that your home is burning down around you. Level 10 = Zen, Level 0 = Activist. At level zero you’re probably a member of Greenpeace or you’re taking your clothes off for the perverts at PETA to protest animals shedding or whatever it is. I don’t know. I don’t give a fuck. And of course you can have all the numbers in between.

Now, I have discovered the level you give a fuck is in direct proportion to the percent of enjoyment you get out of life. Here:

Actual Level of Not Giving a Fuck x 100 / 10 (Max Level of Not Giving a Fuck) = Percentage of Life Enjoyment

So, for example, if my level of not giving a fuck is an 8:

8 x 100 = 800 / 10 = 80%

I’m only getting 80% enjoyment out of my life.

Consumption of alcohol can increase your Level of Not Giving a Fuck by two at any given time, unfortunately this is a short term benefit as eventually your liver WILL start to give a fuck, go on strike, and take off its clothes for PETA.

This website’s header is becoming the bane of my existence. While I didn’t get a spiffy piece of paper that says I’m smart from college I did go to college for web programming and came within two general classes of having my Bachelor’s degree before I ran out of money; I’m a science elective and some “job preparation” class short. I might not have gone to formal graphic design school but I like to think I can do some nice work with photoshop; I learned photo manipulation and a lot of effects from years of creating character portraits and avatars for RPG chats.

Point being, I should be able to come up with a proper header for my blog.

Its holding me back from submitting this blog to any of the blog searches out there and possibly getting some regular readers who comment; I know of only three readers at the moment, all who give their feedback via text or Facebook (though I am no less grateful for you ). Submitting a blog with a stock image is probably akin to wearing white after Labor Day. Or something. I don’t know. I’ve never been good with fashion analogies.

I considered doing a collage of some of my favorites but I’m hesitant, a lot of the images would be protected by copyright. I could do a header with Neurotic Cat and Cool Cat but I’m worried if I do that some little old ladies will stumble across my blog and, with adorable cat pictures for a header, will assume its a cat blog and start sharing knitting patterns, denture tips, and attempt to regale me with stories of their childhoods as girls and how so much has changed with menopause.

I don’t need stories about menopause. I need a header.

I’m even open to suggestions, though I’m a tad bit prissy when it comes to things like this so be warned. If I spit upon your soul don’t take it personally.

I’m kidding.

Also I had Cheeze-Its for breakfast. What the fuck is wrong with me?

Oh, and I just thought of something. Its concerning Cheeze-Its. I was getting ready to post this while smacking my lips with their lingering baked cheese crackery taste when I realized this: the last Cheeze-It doesn’t taste as good as the first one. Usually when you dine on something, if its good to begin with of course, the last bite is just as good as the first. You can savor the taste. But when I eat Cheeze-Its the first little baked cracker is delicious. Mmmmm. The second cracker, its pretty good. The third cracker, not as good as the first. Then a serving size later as I’m putting that last cracker in my mouth I feel awkward. It has a taste that says “Why the hell did you eat so many of me?” To which my stomach responds “I don’t know.”

From that point on I sit there in limbo. Its sort of like a disconnect between my brain, stomach, and mouth. My brain remembers how cracker number one tasted but my stomach is behaving like a socially awkward teenager who just got asked to give a presentation in front of his class in regards to cracker number fourteen. My mouth is like “Why is this taste still here” and that makes my stomach go “Nooooooo, god why? Why did we eat a full serving of crackers? THE. HU. MANITY!!!”

My stomach is very dramatic.

Am I the only person who feels this way? About the Cheeze-Its. Not my stomach’s ability to act on Broadway.