When someone offers to crack that final white chicklet out of their crinkly plastic checkerboard, it just sort of dawns on you: you’ve got a new best friend.
AWESOME!
(Please click here for an exciting message from 1000 Awesome Things.)
Photo from: here
I’m a mess in the morning.
Drool drips down my cheeks, my mouth hangs open like a mailbox, and my eyeballs roll around their sockets in slow motion. Hair scraped sideways, underwear bunched up and twisted, I dry-swallow and slowly stumble out of bed while trying to form my first thoughts of the day.
Inside my brain a tiny man is feverishly working a broom to sweep away all the dusty shards of dream residue so my conscious self can assume the controls. When he does, some rusty gears are crunched and I groggily shuffle to the bathroom where my own droopy, mashed up face greets me like a monster in the mirror.
It is a hideous sight.
Yes, I immediately notice there was a party in Dreamworld last night and those subconscious animals left my place a real mess. Strange puddles pool on counters, squeezed-up lemon wedges fill the sink, and cigarette butts litter the balcony. Folks, I’m junked right out, my lips chapped with the corners cracked, my skin dry and flaking, and my mouth loaded with a big set of furry yellow teeth.
Plus, to top it all off my eyes are nearly glued shut.
That’s right — goop clogs the corners and fills the tear ducts with their sharp n’ drippy dregs. And let’s be honest here: those eye boogies will catch us if we’re not careful, showing up unannounced at job interviews, big meetings, and first dates.
We can’t have that.
No, there’s really only one choice and that’s to get digging, people. Cast your finger in the starring role of shovel, rake, and wheelbarrow and jam it right in there. Hard bits, sharp bits, gummy little squishy bits, just yank them all, with each tiny crumb giving you a little pick-me-up when you lift it up and pull it out.
Now that you can see again it’s time to clean up the rest of the joint. Yes, with your eyes back in the game nothing can stop you now. So cue the shave, cut to the shower scene, and get ready to enjoy your big, beautiful day.
AWESOME!
(Please click here for an exciting message from 1000 Awesome Things.)
Photos from: here, here, and here
Congrats, everybody!
Our peppy little community of eyes-to-the-skies optimists accepted the Best Culture/Personal Blog award at the Webbies this past Monday in New York City. We chatted before about how getting recognized for doing something you love is awesome and we’re so grateful to all of you for your support and electronical votering.
Now, the Webby Awards have a tradition of enforcing a strict five-word max speech policy for all winners. That’s right, brother: keep ’em short and get off the stage. No need for the band to awkwardly jam in when you take a breath between paragraphs, no long rambly speeches thanking agents and academies, none of that. It’s just wham, bam, thank you Gram, come up, get down, and keep the party shaking.
So Jimmy Fallon took home the award for Webby Person of the Year with the line “Thank God Conan got promoted”, the Boston Globe snagged Best Photography with “It’s not journalism that’s dying,” and Twitter Co-Founder Biz Stone accepted Webby Breakout of the Year with “Creativity is a renewable resource.” If you’re interested, you can check out past speeches over at the Webby site.
As for us, we took a reader suggestion and went with a four-word shortie.
Short acceptance speeches.
AWESOME!
(Please click here for an exciting message from 1000 Awesome Things)
Because now you’re finally tall and can look down at the world below you. Gone are those constant views of ankles, coffee table legs, and your family cat’s hollow, piercing eyes. Now you’re zooming up and over gardens, sandlots, and your baby brother’s distant, fading cries.
Stomach gushing, adrenaline rushing, it’s your first taste of the high life.
Photo from: here
Gut busting with chicken chow mein, nursing a fried rice hangover, your frenzied hour of pillaging the steam trays quickly dissolves into a table full of sticky-smeared plates, bloated bellies, and quiet groaning.
Folks, if you’re like me this scene is called The End of The Buffet, a dimly-lit freeze-frame featuring you and your friends lazily sliding in chairs with slack jaws and heavy eyelids.
And it gets worse, too.
The chipper waitress drops off the bill and everybody just eyes each other suspiciously. Who owes who money? Who ordered drinks and who didn’t? Is anyone riding a fat paycheck high and feeling generous? Since I am an extremely cheap person, I generally choose this exact moment to skedaddle to the bathroom in the hopes that everyone else will overpay and allow me to just drop a fiver on the stack before heading out.
Of course, it never works out that way.
Instead, I return to an untouched bill and generally get pegged as Math Guy, also known as The Job Nobody Wants After Dinner. See, my friends start chatting about what movie to see and I’m suddenly stuck with my head down, brows furrowed, figuring out tips, collecting cash, and trying to follow the paper trails of who paid what.
If you’re hanging out with me and my friends then Math Guy is a doubly terrible job because we’re always forty bucks short. People shrug, eye contact is avoided, and there are some phantom wallet reaches, until we figure out that two people didn’t add tax and tip and one guy still needs to get cash from the bank machine.
Holla if you been there.
Math Guys and Math Girls of the world, we feel each other’s pain. It’s tough asking people to put more money in and sometimes we just reach into our own wallets to get the job done. Twenties are broken, coins are counted, and there is constant checking and rechecking that it all adds up right.
Yes, if you’re picking up what I’m putting down, then you know that moment of quiet satisfaction when you finally close that sticky, vinyl, duck-sauce smeared billfold over a stack of crumpled bills and sliding coins.
Because at that exact moment the shackles of Math Guy are finally busted.
And you’re free.
AWESOME!
Feet need to breathe.
People, people, we’ve discussed this before. Those corny paws sure are sitting ugly at the bottom of the You Chain. Stepped on, squished on, dripping with sweat, they’re down low all day long getting no damn respect.
So once in a while give them a well deserved break. That’s right, girlfriend: peel the hot socks off, roll the tight jeans up, and flash them sexy ankles, because it’s time to drop your bare, aching feet into some cool, waiting water.
Yes, that gentle lapping on the edge of the dock, side of the boat, or in the hotel pool is just calming, soothing, and good for the soul.
And good for the sole.
AWESOME!
Fire trickles and drips across the sky, old folks huddle and cuddle and babies cry, teenagers squeeze sweaty palms and look up, up way high. Because light fills the night, kabooms bang in the air, conversation stops, jaws drop, we all crane our necks up … and stare. Yes, when those fireworks erupt, when they splash in the dark, when those bright waterfalls drip down into our park, we all ooh and ahh at them big beautiful sparks.
AWESOME!
Photo from: here
No pools, no puddles, no hairs, no mess, no worries, no shudders, no cringing, no stress.
AWESOME!
Your head is a machine.
Honestly, just face it: your face and scalp are really just oily gift wrap over the giant, whirring Skull Factory running full-throttle inside your coconut. Just think about what’s going on up there.
First you’ve got sound waves constantly navigating your twisty, waxy ear canals like Luke Skywalker weaving through Death Star trenches. Then there’s your nose on permanent high sniff alert, searching out gas leaks in the basement, fresh croissants at the bakery, or coffee aisles in the grocery store. And we can’t forget your mouth and nose dancing together in the majestic art of breathing.
But wait, that’s not all. On top of these rickety assembly lines of important Head Business, you’ve got blood swirling around, mucus dripping all over the place, and neurons firing and bouncing off walls like a never ending game of Breakout.
Skull Factory’s a busy place, folks. The line keeps moving every day, every night, every year, forever.
Given how much is going on it’s no wonder the gears get gummed up once in a while. Rogue lashes jam your sockets, popsicles give you brainfreeze, and sneezes stall in your clogged-up noggin just as they’re trying to escape.
And you know what that feels like.
Face frozen in an awkward crunch, you stare at the ceiling and hold your hand up to your friend, pleading with the factory foreman to please just let it out. One eye popped open, the other squeezed shut, you clench your cheeks, twist your mouth into a triangle, and feel the lost sneeze pinball around your skull.
And then BOOM.
How good does it feel when that sneeze finally comes ripping out? The sweet release feels like someone yanking a red-hot, twisted wrench out of your grinding, crunched-up and steaming headgears to let all the oily, metal parts suddenly start whirring again.
You feel wild, you feel refreshed, and you just got a big face splash of
AWESOME!
Here’s how it all goes down.
Well-dressed fatcats sit around a dark, mahogany table in the boardroom of a nondescript highrise deep in a dense metropolis on the coast of an exotic country. Anonymous and alone, they sip scotch, share pictures of new yachts, and make plans to jack gas prices for the long weekend.
Cuff links clinking on crystal glasses, celebratory cigar smoke filling the room, the gas execs laugh deep belly laughs, high-ten each other, and then file into limos to take them back to the airport. And of course, just before they leave, everyone does a shot of high-octane gasoline to keep the memory fresh and the evil juices flowing.
At least that’s how I imagine it.
After all, gas prices bob up and down and up and down and seemingly rise up whenever you cruise up to fill up for the weekend. We all know it’s a constant game and a constant battle.
But that’s why there’s something fun about watching those prices drip and drop ever so slowly throughout the week and then pulling in to fill your tank just before they zoom sky-high again.
Honestly, when you nail it just right you walk away laughing, patting the extra three dollars in your pocket and daydreaming of how you might spend it this time. Lottery ticket, windshield washer fluid, maybe some beef jerky for the ride home. Either way, you’ll be sitting pretty when you cruise by the station on a full tank tomorrow and notice the prices are hiked back up.
Bottom line, man: you came out to play the Gas Game this week.
And you won.
AWESOME!
