Sharing 101

*other person waiting for their order in coffee shop starts accidentally reaching for mine*


External Me:

“Oh, sorry excuse me! Yea hi, sorry I think that may be mine. No, no that’s ok. No worries. Have a great day!”

Internal Me: 



Hey guys, so we are giving away some awesome free stuff – and I want you all to know about it because who doesn’t like free stuff?



Free is like the best word in the English language. Other awesome english words:

  • Kazoo
  • Recombobulation (this one is native to my beloved Milwaukee,WI)
    • It is too a word.
    • Yes, it is…
    • Yes. It. Is.
  •  Bumfuzzle (yes, this is also an actual word, and one that should be incorporated into regular conversation more often).
  • Cattywampus
  • Malarkey
  • Lollygag

(For more funny words, I encourage you to visit: this funny list of funny words. Enjoy!)

….ok, enough of that. I just had to make sure the summary was full so you’d stick around long enough for my actual announcement.



Ok, but really, there is some free stuff involved in this post. Mainly, an AWESOME new blog/blogger that you NEED to know about RIGHT NOW.

My friend Casey (Do you already know Casey? Isn’t she great?!) will be spending the Summer in Bangkok, teaching English and sharing her awesome self with Thailand.

She is going to write cool things about it here:

She hasn’t even unpacked in Thailand yet, so be patient, grasshoppers, the cool words are coming soon. She asked me to help her get it started while I was “helping” her get organized for her trip.

And darn it, that’s what I’m gonna’ do.

tenor (1)

Live footage of me “helping” Casey pack.

So could you do me a favor and follow her? Please? Pretty please? A please-that-doesn’t-get-through-life-solely-on-it’s-good-looks?

Thank you. You’re the best. The ACTUAL best. If there were a trophy, it’d be yours.

Casey is one of the best people I know. She is hilarious and kind and genuine and ALL of these wonderful qualities will surely shine through in her writing.

Just in case you somehow missed the 8 thousand links to her blog that I casually sprinkled into this update (which I’ll admit, is pretty impressive…) here is the link one more time:

The follow button is the blue one with the word “Follow” on it. You should click it. You won’t be sorry.





Tornados and Provenance: A Birthday Message

Well friends, it happened again.


As many of you may remember from a post you totally read one year ago, birthdays and I have a love/hate relationship.

(You definitely did read that post, right? Of course you did! I know this. But just in case you may have, possibly, accidentally missed it last year, or been in a coma or something then, voila! Here is a link for your convenienceBirthday Lamentations

Go ahead and read it, take your time, I can wait.)


Ok, welcome back! Where were we? Right! Love/Hate:

I love that I was born once. That’s pretty neat. I also love celebrating all of the other birthdays in my life because they are attached to the people in my life that I also love and who are also pretty neat.

I hate the “Happy Birthday” song. I really do. I am humbled by people who care enough to sing to me, and by people who care in general, and by people who feel that I am worth singing about because, dang, I must be loved. But then there’s the whole having to stand still and be stared at and dear God what am I supposed to do with my hands?

There is also this thing where the amazing people I love go out of their way to make me feel special which is beyond sweet and kind and wonderful but also unnecessary because the fact that they are in my life at all is more than enough to make me feel like the luckiest Sun-Circler on the planet. Anything extra feels like  I’m taking advantage of their beautiful, generous,  and loving hearts and that’s not cool.

And ok FINE I’ll admit that “hate” is a strong word, but the song is creepy. And it demands that I be the center of attention for approximately 17-38 seconds and I’m really not big on the whole “everyone look at me!” thing, so yeah, it’s complicated.anigif_enhanced-buzz-9434-1359657719-0

NEVERTHELESS…another birthday is upon us and I must deal with that accordingly …but I don’t really know how to do that so instead, here is an abridged version of my I’m-not-at-all-important-enough-to-use-this-word: provenance.

Aw yeah, I used it anyway.


(pause for dramatic effect)



There was a tornado the day I was born.

Sounds epic, no? Like the beginning of some superhero’s origin story or possibly even the first line in The Curious Case of Benjamin Button

(Hang on, is that the first line? That was a tsunami or some weird flash flood or something, right? If not please do me a solid and let me know ASAP; I’m really not looking to get sued by Warner Bros. or whoever represents Mr. Fitzgerald these days.)

My mother, having been ushered out of her hospital bed only a few short hours after my birth, cradled me in her arms as some nurse wheeled us out into the hospital hallway while my father likely threatened their lives for making his wife and new-born child do anything at all without his direct consent. (Love you, Dad. Thanks for looking out for me from minute one.)

The tornado wasn’t one of those devastating, “Storm Claims Lives” situations (thank God), nor was it a whimsical “There’s No Place Like Home,” type of deal. It was average, ultimately uneventful and for Mom, Dad and all of the other new parents huddled together in that hospital hallway, I’d be willing to bet it was mostly uncomfortable and more than a little bit awkward.



I mean, it’s kind of perfect, right?! No doubt someday my epitaph will likely read:




1993 – 2187*

“Mostly uncomfortable and more than a little bit awkward.”


* Don’t get all judgey about my math skills, mmk? I am fully aware that 194 is pushing it just a tad – for now. But modern medicine is REALLY on the up&up and longevity is one of my family’s strengths genetically so be cool – it could happen.


I don’t remember how old I was when I first heard this story. I do remember the overwhelming feeling of “Hmm, how very fitting,” that struck me when I first heard it. I also remember my Mom very sweetly adding something along the lines of “you were well worth it” or distracting me from the profound prescience of the story altogether by telling me that I was “beautiful from day one,” or something else all cute and mom-like.

(Hi, Mom!)

My father proudly recalled that he managed to stop at the bank and get a cup of coffee from McDonald’s while he and my Mom were on the way to the hospital.

“You took your sweet time, kid. It was all very relaxed.”

(Hi, Dad!)

One item on the never-ending list of great things about moms, or at least my Mom, is that they think you’re beautiful no matter what. They think you’re beautiful when you’re a blurry, black and white splotch in an ultrasound photo. They think you’re beautiful when you hijack their bodies for nine months and use their bladder as a kick ball. They think you’re beautiful only moments after having endured the serious pain it took to bring you into the world, and somehow even in our wrinkly, squishy, pale, squinty newborn forms: they think we’re beautiful.

One great thing about Dads, especially mine, is that they tend to agree with Moms because they are so pumped up with Dad-pride. “I made this human, and it’s awesome. Now, LOOK AT IT!”

For me, this meant that my father took my newborn photos (ie, wrinkly, pale, squishy, squinty me), blew them up to the size of a poster board and hung them in his front office. (see photo below)




(As if I would purposely release those pictures to the world…ha! Not today, internet. You’ll all get a bald kitten instead and you’ll like it!)


Fortunately, a few things have changed since that day 24 years ago. I am still pale, sadly, and squishy isn’t entirely out of the picture either even though I got a FitBit like, six months ago. Psh, it must be broken…


Where was I going with this?


Oh, right! Differences! Well, for starters, Dad finally took that photo down.

I don’t squint as much and I’m less wrinkly. So those are pluses. I am slightly taller as well. Another win. Also the tornado has stopped, and to my knowledge Oz is still intact so no worries there either.

The biggest victory though, or victories, I suppose, would be that now in addition to some pretty awesome parents, I have all of you wonderful, beautiful people in my life too.

(cue the “awwws”)

But seriously; this is what hits me every time I circle the sun: not only did I somehow manage to stay alive for 365 more days – which is nothing short of miraculous given my general lack of coordination and affinity for getting lost – but my life also includes all of you, and MAN is that cool!

It has only taken me about 1,000 non-essential words to get here, but I have finally arrived at my point – thanks for bearing with me.

And thanks for everything else too.

For the “happy birthdays”

and the “I love yous”

and the millions of other ways you people have made my heart all warm and fuzzy for nearly a quarter of a century now – even when it isn’t my birthday. I am honored, and truly, deeply humbled by you all, and I am beyond grateful that you’re in my life – even during those dreaded 17-38 seconds of pure agony.



With 24-years-worth of love,


– KlinkOnTheBrink

Blood Drive Questionnaire: An Accurate Translation




1.) Are you feeling healthy and well today?

– Are you like, going to die if we poke you and stuff?

2.) Have you previously donated?

– You do realize we’re going to poke you and stuff, right?

3.) Do you now or have you ever had “Scary Disease 1-68.”

 – You don’t even know what these are, do you? You healthy little twerp.

4-11.) Have you ever had sex with anyone ever at all?

     – But seriously, have you?

12-16.) Have you ever had sexual contact with anyone ever at all?

-Yes, it’s the same thing we just asked you. But maybe you lied.

17.) Are you currently pregnant or nursing?

– Babies. Have any of those? Because they need this blood, dumb dumb.

17.2) So wait, you’re not pregnant?

17.3) Why not?

17.4) From what you told me in question 1, you’re not getting any                                               younger…

17.5) Do you not LIKE babies?

17.6) What’s the matter with you?

17.7) Have you no soul?!

17.8) What are you even doing with your life, Baby-Hater?

17.9) You know when your Grandmothers were your age they                                                        already had like, 5 kids

18.) They’re the reason you’re alive too, by the way.

19) Bet you never even thanked them, did you?

20) Nope. You just decided to “do your own thing” instead of passing on their legacy.

21) Have you always been this selfish?

22) You disgust me.

23.) Ok, but seriously – sex? Who have you had it with?

24.) Did they hate babies too?

25.) Hmph. Typical.

*********************   15 minutes later     **********************

Nurse: “Ok! Let’s get you set up to donate! Looks like that’s the only semi-decent thing you’re doing with your life!”

Things That Actually Happened: Episode 1

I am a fan of mochas. All coffee, really, but mochas are the go-to.

Work has coffee, but no “mocha-like” substances. So, I smuggled in a can of chocolate syrup. And yes, I really do mean smuggled. Work has issues with “outside substances” because some guy had an allergy to something 186 years ago. No one remembers who or what, conveniently.

Please don’t ask me why I bought a can of syrup instead of getting a squeeze bottle like a person who doesn’t hate herself.

Please don’t.

I hid the can in my bag all sly-like and strolled into the kitchenette like a smooth criminal. It was all going according to plan.

Then I realized I had no can opener.

Panic set in.

Then denial.

Then anger.

Then some more panic and just a hint of self-pity.


Then, I noticed there was a letter opener on the counter.


DISCLAIMER: The following scenes may contain bouts of under-caffeinated violence and poor decision-making that some may find highly disturbing. Viewer discretion is advised.


Guys, I stabbed the can.

Repeatedly. It was a crime of passion.

The worst part is that I did this quietly, slowly, as to not alarm anyone nearby. I even muffled my murder weapon with a towel and ran the sink, so I’d have an alibi if someone came around the corner.

“Oh hey, Joe, just doing some dishes!”

There were no dishes…just a dented, likely traumatized and emotionally-scarred letter opener.

And…an open can!

I wasn’t out of the woods yet. I still had to dispose of the evidence, and wipe the counters for chocolate-covered fingerprints just in case. I laid the letter opener to rest, hid the newly-opened can, and went back for some paper towel.

I opened the cabinet above the sink…and found this.



I’m ok.


In Memoriam: 

Letter opener (20?? – 2016)

A loyal friend to the working folk. A facilitator of communication. Not a can opener.

You will be dearly missed.


BOXED IN : A Haunting Story about Cardboard Containers and Procrastination

*cue spooky sounds*


There once was a girl who lived in an apartment building…

Many a year was spent dwelling within the safety of it’s walls, enjoying the noncommittal furniture and the complimentary hot water, tolerating the kitchen cabinet that just WOULD NOT CLOSE.

But alas, the time came for her to gather her belongings and set off on a perilous journey toanother apartment building.

There were warning signs for this: a written notice, a signed lease, the ever-turning pages of her countdown calendar; but the girl was foolish, she did not heed these warnings.

The days slipped by, her inevitable demise looming in the distance. She tried to deny it at first. 

“That pile of clothes I’m supposed to donate certainly isn’t THAT large,” she’d assure herself. “I will have plenty of time to organize my closet and pack up my books.”

She was, of course, entirely wrong.

*end spooky sounds*


So, I moved out of my old place recently.

“Big deal,” you’re probably thinking. “Everybody moves, get over it.”

Well, Judgey, you’re right. Lots of people move. They put everything they own into boxes then move those boxes from one bigger box to another, newer, hopefully slightly nicer box.


The kicker here, is that this usually happens over the course of a weekend, maybe for some poor, unfortunate souls, even in a 24-hour period.

As horrid and sweaty and awful as those move-out scenarios are, they are standard. This story, however, is not of the ordinary variety. For you see, I finished moving out last week, but I have not lived in my old place for over 2 months.

That’s right. You read that correctly. TWO MONTHS. Allow me to explain…



Actually, the explanation isn’t all that exciting either.

“So then why are you telling us this sto-“

BECAUSE, JUDGEY, it’s therapeutic. Ok? That’s why. Long story short, large property management companies suck. Majorly. They are suck-tastic.

They do not, however, suck at their jobs when it comes to making obscene amounts of money in ridiculous and immensely irritating ways. Herein lies the reason my former roommates and I were tied to our old place for an extra month, even though we weren’t living there anymore. But I digress…

My frustration, paired with my natural aversion to moving things in boxes (backpacks and duffle bags are acceptable, just not freaking boxes) is what really sealed my fate.

I had an extra month, right? That meant I could move only the essentials into my new, clean, organized living space and then I could sort/donate/downsize the rest of my junk. Start fresh. Right?

Nope. So much nope. All of the nope.

See below for a pathetically accurate portrayal of my sort/donate/downsize “process.”


For a month and a half (plus like, ten more days after that) I was Ariel. I was so Ariel it was insane. Then, when I realized I only had like, 48 hours to move ALL OF THE THINGS that I hadn’t dealt with yet out of one box and into my new box, only then, did I embrace my inner Grumpy Cat. Trust me, friends, it was much, much too late.

This resulted in a few things, none of which I am proud of:

1.) Not sleeping for 46.5 of the 48 hour move-out period.

I wish I was joking. I reeeeeeaaaally do. I’m not. In my procrasitnator’s regret/panic session, I held onto consciousness much longer than any reasonable person ever should. Ever. Kids, don’t try this at home (or ever…because, you know, sleep is good for kids or whatever).

On an unrelated note, thank you God, for coffee and discount energy drinks, oh and for not letting my heart explode. Much appreciated.

2.) I can now add “bed-frame and mattress dismemberment” to my list of special skills.

“Dismemberment” probably sounds like an exaggeration. It’s not. Fun fact: 9 out of 10 building managers (or the corporate offices they’ve sold their souls to) are really good at charging tenants for nonsensical things like  “landscape beautification” (the manager planting a garden out front), or “hallway repairs” (vacuuming) or, in my case “excess waste removal” (charging $200.00 to remove a broken, twin-sized bed frame from a row of industrial dumpsters).

I spoke with my financial advisors (my piggy bank and my pile of student loans). The consensus was that I did not, in fact, have $200.00 in the budget for garbage. Who knew?

As I sat there staring at the old, lumpy mattress and the beat up, particle board that defied physics and supported said mattress, I found myself growing a bit nostalgic…

Just kidding. I tore it to shreds. No really, shreds.

See, part of the “we will charge you for this” section in my lease demanded that there were “no excess items or pieces of furniture” sitting next to the dumpsters. My reaction?

“Challenge accepted.”

So, after taking the frame apart piece by piece, I also dismembered the actual mattress – a process which I sincerely hope none of you ever find yourselves in.

May God have mercy on your fuzz-covered souls if you do.

If you’ve never found yourself in a sketchy alley at 4 AM, covered in mattress fuzz, dragging garbage bags full of shredded fabric and bits of particle board to miscellaneous dumpsters like a Criminal Minds villain, you have yet to reach your darkest potential.

54465149    images.jpeg

This predicament was a new one for me, and I am rather familiar with predicaments. I am  not proud, but I was victorious.

The remnants of what was once my bedroom have been scattered throughout the city. I will never reveal their location. In my overtired (verging on delusional) state, I found myself laughing about it on my way back home that morning.

“Bed? What bed? There was never a bed.”

3.) Trading my sentimental soul for one that purges her life of everything but books and clothes.

I don’t think I’ve ever despised things as much as I despised the things I threw (quite forcefully) into boxes and abandoned in the Goodwill drop box at 1 AM.

They weren’t bad things. It wasn’t their fault they had accumulated in every corner, empty cabinet and dresser drawer in sight over the course of two years. It wasn’t their fault they hadn’t been dealt with sooner.

I hated them anyway.

Surely, they will bring someone else some happiness. They will find themselves useful once more. They will serve some wonderful purpose in someone’s life. That life will most definitely NOT be mine.


There are surely a few other things I shouldn’t be proud of, but let’s not go there. I’ve got to keep SOME mystery alive in this relationship we have here.

On an entirely happier note, I’d like to send out some thank yous. Mostly, to my two former room mates, who worked with me to clean our old place so thoroughly that they could open a freaking hospital in it.

Also, thank you to the friend that stopped by during the height of my hysteria to adopt some larger pieces of furniture. Please don’t underestimate how momentous this was. Not only did she take things (which as you may have heard, I hate) away from me so I wouldn’t have to dismember them, she also talked to me like I was a human even though I probably resembled some angrier version of the Tasmanian Devil that was covered in sweat and mattress fluff. Also, she hasn’t run screaming from my life since then. In short, she’s a saint. Someone get this girl a medal.

Finally, and this last one isn’t really a thank you so much as it is an “I’m sorry,” but to the random guy that just wanted to go on leisurely bike ride at 5AM that morning and ran into my deranged self in an alley instead, well, thanks for not calling the cops.



I probably didn’t need to tell you about all of this, but it just isn’t healthy to keep these things boxed in (ha! see what I did there?)

Friends, if you’ve taken anything away from this, hopefully it is that you should not, under any circumstances, do as I do. Also, if you ever need help tearing furniture apart at three in the morning, you know who to call – someone else.