Birthday Lamentations

As of a few days ago, I have successfully traveled around the sun once more.

It’s a big deal, apparently.

Don’t get me wrong, I am pretty psyched that I was born, and that despite my talents for tripping on nothing and locking myself out of my apartment, I’ve managed to survive one more year. Also, I am a HUGE fan of other peoples’ birthdays, just, yeah…not so much my own.

This is a major issue, because I am one of those lucky individuals who has people in their life that like them, and therefore get excited about their birthdays. Fun fact: when you hide your birthday from these kind of people, they get mad. REALLY mad.


These kind of people ^


There’s something about the spotlight that I’ve just never been a fan of. Actually, there are a lot of things about the spotlight I’m rather uncomfortable with. Scratch that, I HATE spotlights. 

That escalated quickly…

Spotlights are a million times worse on birthdays because they are expected and therefore justified. It’s unavoidable. We show love to other people on their birthdays by shining our spotlights on them or increasing the wattage of their spotlight’s bulb, or simply pushing them into every, single, freaking spotlight we can find.



Then there’s the dreaded, the inevitable, the actuallyprettycreepyifyouthinkaboutit: happy birthday song.

My friends and family are wonderful, and for some reason they all seem to like me, so naturally, on my birthday I am graced with various and increasingly unique renditions of this song.

I am grateful for this, because I am grateful for the people who perform it, but it never ceases to amaze me that a 15-20 second song can feel like an eternity.



Most recently, a good friend of mine decided to start singing to me at a public event, in a field full of people who then, you guessed it, also started singing.


Granted, having a field full of strangers sing to you is both humbling and heartwarming. You’ve got me there. My ever-depleting faith in humanity was restored just a tad. And yet, for those infinite 15-20 seconds, I was socially paralyzed.

It could be, perhaps, that my shoes were too tight. Or, it could be, perhaps that my head wasn’t screwed on just right. But most likely, it was because when this little ordeal happened it wasn’t actually my birthday anymore. It was only a few days later, sure, but even so. There was this nonsensical  and overwhelming feeling of guilt.

You’re singing for me? Strangers are singing for me? This is madness. I don’t deserve this onslaught of positive attention, take it back.

It’s as if that momentary birthday spotlight was actually a communication stun gun. I didn’t know what to say, what to do, who to look at, what face to make…I was useless. Touched, truly, and embarrassed, naturally, but useless all the same.


THANK YOU Allie Brosh for your artwork and general, all-around awesomeness.

There’s got to be a solution to this right? Someone, somewhere must know what to do with themselves while everyone in the room sings at them in unison about the fact that they were born once, right? I, like so many others, simply haven’t mastered the hidden art of gracefully moving through the Happy Birthday song. I can’t really be the only one who feels this way. Right? Right?

If the answer isn’t yes than lie to me, people. It’s my birthday. Kind of. Also, to all of you who did wish me a happy birthday in whatever way, thank you. My aversion to birthdays and extra attention and unexpected human interaction aside, you all make my life amazing.

See? I’m not an ungrateful gook, just and awkward one.

A very happy birthday/unbirthday to you all!


All of you aforementioned wonderful people can soooooo expect retaliation in the spotlightiest of ways when your birthdays come around.






I bet you suckers thought you got rid of me, didn’t you?

You’re probably all like…

“It’s been over a year, Klink is probably dead.”

But then here I am like :

“Koo Koo Kachoo, Mamacitas!”

Actually I’m not like that at all…ever. But can you blame me for trying? Even that string of rubbish is better than the inevitable “uh…hey guys…” that I originally intended to post along with some second rate excuses about why I haven’t posted in so long. Some of which included:

  • forgot my password
  • forgot my username
  • forgot my username AND my password (the horror)
  • forgot how all computers worked
  • forgot my identity
  • forgot that I forgot all of these things
  • was eaten by zombies

Surely you see now that “Koo Koo Kachoo Mamacitas” was truly the best option for all involved parties. You’re welcome.


I’m alive! Despite the rumors that you’ve inevitably heard about me getting abducted by aliens, or locking myself in a time capsule or getting hopelessly lost in IKEA for the past year (which I firmly believe is entirely possible) I’M BACK!

Promises on the internet are stupid, so I will make you a reasonable and well-intended offer for more posts in the semi-near future if you stay tuned. Tempting offer, no?

With love and a surplus of IKEA furniture,

❤ Klink



Me vs. The Sun / Why I Hate Sunshine ep. 1

You probably just read the title of this post, then scoffed in disgust. It’s okay, you can admit it. You might as well, you’ve already been caught.

However, if some of you had Disney-Influenced childhoods, much like my own, then you probably just pictured this. If so, kudos to you, Disney child. You are awesome.

i hate sunshine

Mad props to the first person to comment on this post with the movie this scene is from. Bonus points if you also name this character because she was my favorite. You want the mad props, people. They come paired with my undying respect. That’s a pretty big deal.

Now, back to the scoffers. I don’t blame you, really, it is a natural reaction (for sunshine lovers) to scoff at sunshine haters. You’re forgiven for your scoffing (I guess).

But I stand by my claim, whether it is bizarre or not. I can’t stand freaking sunshine and no, it’s not some nihilistic, “go against the crowd” type of deal. I just don’t like it, and I am prepared to explain why.

FIRST and foremost, if you haven’t already connected the dots from my past ramblings (and by that  mean all of my other posts, which you should totally read, you know, if you wanna…), I am a wee bit of a night owl.

I can’t pinpoint exactly when I decided to throw caution to the wind, and also my sleep schedule, but my mediocre ability to remember specific time periods tells me that it was somewhere near the end of middle-school. Then again, my mediocre ability to remember specific time periods lies to me all the time, so it shouldn’t really be trusted.

Regardless, years of “living” mostly at night, have altered my ability to handle the daytime and all of it’s annoying quirks. Sunshine is no exception.I am convinced that my eyes have adapted to my nocturnal existence. My eyes are beasts when it comes to seeing things in the dark, but in the light? Yeah not so much…

I have come to the realization that my sensitivity to light is the equivalent of a naked mole rat’s. Never seen one? Here ya go. Just soak in all of that beauty.

Gorgeous, no?

Gorgeous, no?

I didn’t show you this little wrinkle-monster to scar you for life, I did it to make a point. There is a reason these guys live underground (an no, that wasn’t a jab at their lack of…uh, appeal). Their eyes are itty bity little pupil dots. The live in darkness, therefore they have no need for non-creepy normal eyes like mine that are SUPPOSED to properly filter light. Bring a naked mole rat into a sunny room and they too, would be in immense pain.

Naked Mole Rats feel my pain…

Also does anyone else feel jaded because naked mole rats look like this and not like Rufus? Kim Possible was my hero at some point in  y childhood/pre-teendom, and here I am now, realizing that she lied. LIED. My unrealistic expectations in regards to the cuteness of rather repulsive animals is all her fault.

Not cool, KP.

Not cool, KP.


Anyways, animal-beautification concerns aside, my hatred of sunshine poses several other problems.

Like waking up in the morning, for example. and that is already REALLY HARD.

Then there’s the fact that 99.9% of the people in my life simply adore the sun and it’s incessant shiny-ness. This means that I often find myself forced to brave the light, and that goes double for the summer months.

I am that creep at the beach, wearing sunglasses and hiding under an umbrella while other people tan next to me. I often wear sunglasses on overcast days as well, because yes, they are sometime too bright for me. So I look like a James Bond wannabe running around downtown with shades on when the rest of the world has deemed this unnecessary.


The struggle is real.


The struggle is real, guys. The struggle is real. Sunshine happens like, ALL THE FREAKING TIME. And apparently it is vital to the continued survival of mankind, so doing away with it is out of the question (for now…).

Next time you see someone wearing sunglasses after sunset, or on a cloudy day, be nice. They could have naked mole rat eyes too. Or, just say hi because that person will probably be me…



Awkwardly squinting all the time,




Giggles and Procrastination

Hey peeps.

Not sure what your week holds for you, but mine is likely to be pretty bummerific.

1.) Bummerific: adj.

When the amount of bummer in your week exceeds normal amounts, so you invent a word that makes “bummer” sound like less of a bummer.

Mikey gets it.

There really isn’t anything majorly awful about my life at this particular point. It is just kind of a BLAH week (and it’s only Monday), so I am in a BLAH mood.

If this week had a favorite color, it would be clear.

If this week used perfume, it would be un-scented.

If this week had a catchphrase, it would be “meh.”

I am supposed to be packing all of my junk into boxes and moving it from my tiny room in my current apartment to my slightly-less-tiny room In my new apartment. I have had weeks to begin this process. Weeks. My productivity level as at a record low, however, so my grand total of packed boxes is a WHOPPING: one. That’s it. Just one. I pushed all of my movies off of the shelf they were neatly organized on and watched them topple, haphazardly, into a box that is now messy and over-flowing with DVD cases. Ta-da.

I’m also supposed to be taking care of my financial, academic, and long-term goals, as well as allotting myself more time to be a better socializer. But that all sounded stressful so I trolled the internet and finished a season of Madmen instead.

Disney Channel disney babe references my gf gravity falls dipper pines gifs; mine 4 Waddles

I am sort of dysfunctional in the sense that when I have a TON of stuff going on, I have absolutely zero energy/motivation to get it done.

Naturally, whenever I have nothing going on, I am restless and twitchy and ready for action that never happens. I am pretty positive I have an apathy tumor where my Responsibility bone should be, and a Hyper-Spazz cyst where my regular sleep schedule-izer is supposed to go . I should probably get that checked out…

ANYWAY, seeing as I have been the spokesperson for BLAH lately, the inspiration to write something worthwhile is virtually (completely) non-existent. So, I have slapped together a list of internet gems that have made me chuckle half-heartedly while I lamented about all of the nothing that I’ve gotten done. I hope you enjoy it.

1.) A cat that says “Heyyy” instead of “Meow”.[/embed]

2.) The most accurate pie chart in the history of Ever.


3.)  This guy’s face.

NOOOO waer balloon

4.)  A speech given by a Turkish dictator (trust me…)–MJd8&

5.) Baby goats doing their baby-goat thing

6.) This compilation of Dog Fails, courtesy of the lovely BuzzFeed

Now that I have successfully wasted more time doing nothing (and most likely encouraged you to do the same, I finally (shamefully) feel a bit more productive.

Thank you, Internet, for constantly justifying my nonsensical coping mechanisms. I’ll talk to you again soon, most likely when I am broke, failing out of school and homeless because all I do is troll the internet.

Irresponsibly and Awkwardly yours,



Guess what, Guys?!?! I’M A MOM…MA BIRD!

Yep. You read that right. Unless you read it wrong I suppose…whatever, I don’t know your life.

Anywho…I would like to introduce you all to the newest member of the Awkward Family (which consists mostly of me…and a few other weirdoes…)

THIS…is Penguin.

Penguin's first baby picture <3

Penguin’s first baby picture ❤

He’s an unidentifiable abandoned baby bird that my roommates and I rescued last week. He is bald and pink and glorious and hideously adorable and we are in love with him, or at least I am.

The Furballs (my roommate’s two insidious felines, you can read more about them in their post “The Furballs”) only like him because he looks like a quick snack,( and also like a Rotisserie Chicken…but we won’t go there). Naturally, they have been banished…to the living room. Apparently my roommate is still attached to her “babies”, so actual banishment was vetoed. Bummer, right?

As you can see, Penguin is pretty puny. So puny that there was virtually no way any of us could identify what kind of bird he was, so we decided for him: he is a Penguin. It is cold in Wisconsin, and he cannot fly.

Cold + Flightless = Penguin.


Before PETA busts down my door, I want you all to know that we (my roommates and I) are not idiots. We knew that Penguin couldn’t stay with us if we wanted to give him a real chance at survival – and also it is SUPER illegal to keep wild animals in the state of Wisconsin, so there’s that too.

We tried finding the remains of what was once Penguin’s nest, but he was in a very weird place (the back stairway of our apartment, which is made almost entirely of stone and wood, but no birdy nests) and we could find nothing. Since we couldn’t find his home, we fostered him for a night in a cardboard box with a bunch of warm towels and a heat lamp. Fancy stuff, I know.


He is hard to see, but this is Penguin in his make-shift “nest”. Here you can see my roommates and I, marveling at his Penguin-ness.


I’ll admit, we had our doubts about whether or not Penguin would make it through the night. At first, he didn’t do much of anything. He would twitch occasionally, but he couldn’t actually move, and he wasn’t making any sounds, which was scary. His eyes weren’t even open yet, so he was WAY too new to realistically survive, but Penguin is a beast, and not only did he survive, but he thrived in that cardboard mansion of his.

Somewhere around 3 AM (yes, I sat up with a baby bird all night…I was a new parent, and a wee-bit over-protective. Don’t hate.) , Penguin emerged from his coma-like state and peeped his little heart out until we found him something to eat. The baby bird rescue site we referenced recommended mushed up cat food (We fed the Furball’s food TO someone who the Furballs thought should BE Furball food. This ROYALLY ticked them off…which was hilarious). It was gross to us, but Penguin couldn’t get enough of it. You just don’t know love until you’re feeding a baby bird mushed up cat food via an eyedropper. You just don’t.

To give you an idea of how itty-bitty Penguin really was, this is my hand, which isn't all that big either. He was about as long as my thumb when he was completely stretched out.

To give you an idea of how itty-bitty Penguin really was, this is my hand, which isn’t all that big either. He was about as long as my thumb when he was completely stretched out.

Of course, our time with Penguin had to come to an end for his own good (and probably ours too). In the morning, after feeding him yet again (for a little guy he was kind of a pig, but that’s okay), I took Penguin to a Bird Rehabilitation center that is partnered with the Wisconsin Humane Society. Yes, there are such things as bird rehabilitation centers, who knew?

I have to give the WHS their props, what they do is truly amazing. Not many people (and certainly not enough of them) devote their lives to rescuing and rehabilitating animals, especially not baby birds. Not only did the animal expert who took Penguin (I want to say her name was Marge, but shamefully I am forgetting…sorry, Awesome Lady who took Penguin), not only did she put him in a super-awesome replica nest under an incubator, but she also promised to send me updates on his recovery. Seriously, how cool is that?! We are expecting updates in a week or so, when he should (theoretically) be a little-less bald and have his eyes open. They will also be able to confirm whether or not he is actually a Penguin. We have high hopes…illogical, but high.

For those of you who feel inspired by Penguin’s story, please know that “rescuing” baby birds is not something that we, non-animal-scientists are EVER qualified to do. The only reason we kept Penguin for any amount of time was because we found him late in the afternoon and the shelters were already closed. If you should ever find an “abandoned” baby bird, or any animal for that matter, the first thing you should do is call your local wildlife rescue center (there are more of them than you’d think) or, the DNR – Department of Natural Resources. Either organization would be more than happy to answer any of your questions, and really, they are the only ones qualified to do so.

As a quick, bird-specific reference guide, here is a link to a website that we found very helpful.

Pretty pretty please respect any wild animals you do find, and make sure to only intervene if it is deemed absolutely necessary. What looks “abandoned” or “distressed” to us may very well be natural to them, so double-check your facts before acting.

Special thanks again to the Wisconsin Humane Society, and…Marge?, for all of your help with Penguin, and the other animals you serve. You guys rock!


Signing off (MommaBird Style),







Entirely Irrational but REAL Fears of Mine

The older I get, the more I realize that I am basically a total freaking coward.

No, really; it’s a little ridiculous.


Laughable social phobias aside (you can read more about those is basically EVERY other post), I have a cornucopia of other completely nonsensical and illogical fears in my arsenal of awkwardness. And lucky you, you get to hear about them all.

FIRST, I think it is only fair to identify the LOGICAL sources of my illogical phobias. So, here is a reasonably short list of practical things that I am afraid of:


Rational Fears


#1: Open/Deep Water that I can’t see the Bottom of :

This isn’t all that uncommon. Lots of people don’t like open water because they are afraid of drowning. This isn’t the case for me, though. I don’t like it, because I can’t control it. I can’t run away from it because I can’t run in it. It is bigger and more powerful than me – two major red flags, and there are things living in it (like JAWS himself), that most definitely want to eat me for lunch.


#2: Freaking Hospitals :

I’m not a germaphobe, nor am I really that afraid of being sick. I just don’t like that the people who work there know more about my own body than I do. I don’t like that I don’t know what exactly is in that IV that is going exactly into my veins (also, ow, thanks for the endless needle-sticks, Nurse Lady). I also hate the very aspect of hospital gowns and the unavoidable awkwardness that comes from being forced to wear them. This show ain’t free folks, but nice try.

#3: Paralysis or Physical Restraints of Any Kind:

I don’t like knowing that I can’t remove myself form some sort of potentially painful, uncomfortable, dangerous. or, more likely, awkward situation. Crowed rooms are the enemy, so are traffic jams, lines at amusement parks, packed elevators and any other spaces that are overly “people-fied.”



Now for the fun part. As reasonable(ish) as the above “Root Fears” are, I have absolutely no justification for ANY of the following in this list. I am afraid of these things for no reason, I know, psychologists, I know. But rationalizing the fact that I am off my nut over and over again hasn’t gotten rid of any of them, so just leave me to my nonsense and go fix someone else’s brain. Thanks.



  IrRaTiOnAl FeArS


#1: Having any part of my body, but most specifically my feet, hanging off of the end of the bed while I sleep:

I’m not sure how this particular breed of useless fear wiggled it’s way into my subconscious, but it is there every night waiting to make my life just a little more challenging.

I sleep in a twin-sized bed, because my room is small. Very small. Microscopic. I don’t mind it, really. Small spaces are easier to clean, and I am encouraged not to buy a bunch of stupid stuff due to the lack of stupid space to put the stupid stuff. I don’t mind the small bed either, because it discourages outsiders from attempting to invade my sleep space. BUT, this particular mattress poses a major problem because it is precisely one inch shorter than I am when I stretch out completely.

I know what you’re thinking, (I think):

“Who cares? It is one freaking inch, you big, awkward whiner baby. Get over it.”

NO, JUDGEMENTAL ITALIC VOICE, I WON’T GET OVER IT. Because when you see a measly inch of overhang space, I see this:


The Abyss of Possible DEATH

Yeah. Not so silly now, is it?

Of all the possible causes of death that inevitably live in The Abyss, the following have the most frequent flyer miles in my foolish mind.

A Blood-thirsty FOOT SHARK


That’s right, a freaking shark. I picture a freaking shark, lurking beneath the floor boards of my tiny room on the third story of my land-based apartment, just waiting for me to dangle a few tasty toes in front of him for a late-night snack. I’ve tried forcing myself to leave my foot off the end of the bed. I’ve tried to make the whole, terrifying ordeal a joke to coax myself out of this delusion. It didn’t work. If I put my foot off the end of the bed, a shark WILL eat it. Trust me.


Spontaneous Flames


Ironically, I have no fears whatsoever about the apartment catching on fire in the middle of the night, which, is actually a realistic threat seeing as it is almost entirely made of wood and my room mates and I have a habit of forgetting to blow out candles and leaving the oven on. But nope, it’s only the spontaneous flames I’m ridiculously afraid of. Those sneaky little bastards could pop up out of nowhere to engulf my foot in flames…jerks.


A Spooky Ghost Hand


I’ll admit, this one is just stupid. Also I think it may have something to do with the pathetically high amount of influence that scary movies/video games/etc. had on my childhood brain. Nevertheless, If the shark or the flames don’t get to me first, GHOST HAND will. Not a whole ghost, just his hand. He’ll grab my foot and drag me off of my bed and into ghost land where, well, ghostly things will happen whether I like it or not. We don’t have real-life ghost busters. Bill Murray really let me down there. Who am I going to call? No one, I guess. I just get to die at the hands of some malicious, ecto-plasmic being. Jinkies…



#2: Killing Bugs, because they are all in cahoots and will one day gang up on me:

YES, I know this is not a thing. I know that bugs don’t give two flips about other bugs. I know that even if they were plotting against me, or all of humanity for that matter, a few cans of OFF would solve all of my problems. Or a couple birds, or BEETLEGIEUSE, should he happen to be in the neighborhood. Even so, I always hesitate to squish that spider in my shower or swat at that mosquito, because, what if the Bug-iverse only allows humans so many kills before they retaliate. What if that spider is the last tally on my list? WHAT IF?!?! A Bug-apolypse. That’s what. Bugaggedon. BugZilla. I can keep going. The irrational possibilities are endless.





#3: Closing My Eyes in the Shower because something is watching me, or a Shark, probably a Shark:

It might be the water, it might be the momentary darkness, it may be the fact that I am currently stark naked and utterly defenseless, who knows? Not me, but it doesn’t matter. The second I close my eyes in the shower, something or someone is going to get me. It doesn’t matter that blinking only takes a second. It doesn’t matter that there was nothing there two seconds ago when I double-quadruple checked for the 166th time. It’s there now, I can feel it. Getting soap in my eyes only burns for the rest of the night, but if something gets me, I’ll be got forever. FOREVER. Bring on the red-eye and the shame at my pathetic-ness please. You’re not getting me today, scary thing, or probable shark.  Nope. Not today.





#4: Furbies:

The worst toy in the History of all Toys. When we were little, my brother and I had one. It looked like a little Owl-Cow, and we loved it for precisely five minutes. Then the tongue got stuck down, and it repetitively made the default “MMMMM” or “YUMMMM” noise whenever we so much as blinked in it’s general direction. I hid it in my closet so that it wouldn’t “see” us anymore – and it still went off at random. Usually in the middle of the night. Conclusion? All Furbies are possessed and want to eat me. They are creepy and they should all be accidentally destroyed maliciously or thrown into the Abyss where the Foot Sharks, Spontaneous Flames and Ghost Hands can end their miserably, animatronic lives. The End.

evil furby


This concludes the List of Irrational Fears. I hope you’ve enjoyed yourself. If you need me, I’ll be in the fetal position in the middle of my bed, ignoring that freaking spider in the corner of the ceiling and rubbing my soap-burned eyes.


May Your Lives be Forever Furbie-Less, and as always, I am Awkwardly Yours,