Blizzard Entertainment Sucks

Unless you care about World of Warcraft (or gaming) in the least, I would skip this post because it's just me ranting about how their game developers are douchebags.

I got an e-mail from Blizzard Entertainment informing me that World of Warcraft is now free to play. To my dismay, I soon realized that I had been bamboozled. Here is the actual body of the e-mail:

If you look closely, it states that it is free to play up to level 20. This would be considerably neat IF they hadn't ALREADY been free to play up until level 20 before this. "Kat, if you're so frustrated about it, why don't you just pay to play?" Because I'm broke. That's why. To deal with this frustration, I wrote them an e-mail back, expressing my feelings on the subject:

I don't think they even read the e-mails in their newsletter inbox, but it was worth a try.

Anemic Russians

According to Daniel, the Russian Army prepares soldiers for the horrors of war by putting them into a room and forcing them to wade in animal blood. What. The. Fuck? That is a ready-made script for a horror movie. Also, this next part is not exaggerated. I lied awake in bed for an hour before falling asleep last night because I thought a Russian commander was going to burst into my room and take me out for a 'swim'. My delicate mind isn't made to comprehend that kind of information.

Then when I woke up this morning, I searched 'Russian soldier blood swim' on Google to confirm the validity of this information. Except, now that I think about it, a Russian soldier blood swim sounds like an organized triathlon event aimed to raise awareness for anemic Russian veterans. Anyway, I did not find any results. Now I am currently under the impression that my boyfriend makes up horrific scenes for fun just to watch my sanity slowly disintegrate.

Edit: Daniel swears he did not make that up. I refuse to believe him until he comes back with some form of proof.

Edit: He found it.

Furry Friends and Lovers - They Are The Same

This is not to say my boyfriend leaves his pants everywhere. I don't pick up after him, and he is a reasonably clean human being. I am grateful for this. I cannot say the same for my cat. She leaves her pants everywhere.

Pussy Booty

I know. I've been snubbing my blogging duties. It's just that I've been off in the real world, taking care of my responsibilities. For this, I apologize. I promise that during the week, I will have a greater need to procrastinate and write dumb things for you internet people. In the meantime, have a picture of a cat butt.

My Last Words

I am about 99% sure that I am dying. First, I should explain that I believe when good things happen, my mortality rate spikes (and vice versa).  For example:

This week I have been in and out of the doctor's office because I feel like there is a bear inside me trying to claw it's way out of my very unhappy stomach, and there are more bears inside my skull, causing damage there as well. I am currently waiting for results from my lab tests.

This week, my mom bought Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

DO YOU SEE WHAT'S HAPPENING HERE? My mom knows I might die, so she tries to console me by being extra nice. One might point out, "Well, Kat. Buying Cinnamon Toast Crunch isn't THAT great." No. No, my friend, that is where you are wrong. You just don't understand. I was that kid who grew up with essentially nothing but Raisin Bran and goddamn off-brand Wheaties. I was that kid who salivated while simultaneously wiping away tears of sorrow as my mother carted me through the cereal aisle that held my hopes and dreams.

Now, you must see the position that I am in. Do not mourn for me. As I prepare for my impending doom, I will be happily treating my taste buds to a sugary last meal.

The Joy of Stats

I find myself becoming rather fed up with my statistics homework lately.

How I Make Friends

Telly, TV, Television

I know I've been inactive for a few days, but my boyfriend, Daniel, was in town; miraculously, when I'm with him, I don't feel the need to be attached to my computer. Instead, we glue ourselves to the small, yet reliable television in my room to watch the Game Show Network or the Food Network. If we aren't laughing at the people on Baggage, we're yelling at the contestants on Family Feud. If we aren't salivating at the sight of food on Iron Chef, we're guessing who will win on Chopped. I'm sure we could spend our time doing something a little more productive, but I'm content with sitting brainlessly on the couch for a few hours.

Sports are to most normal people as competitive game shows/cooking shows are to me. I have accepted this and feel no shame.

(Also, Daniel, if you read this, you left your pants and Axe at my house. I am going to make use of these items and walk around looking and smelling like a dude.)

The Three Things I Hate About Going To the Doctor's Office

1. Peeing Into a Cup
"Can you pee into a cup for us?" Okay, let's not overlook the extremely creepy wording here. Can I pee for you guys? No thanks. Can I pee to check that I don't have any diseases? Sure thing. In addition to that, every time they ask me this, I have to say no because I, like a normal person, urinate when I need to and don't save up for the doctor's office. There's also just the act of going into a cup and then bringing the fresh pee to them so they can examine it. I'd hate to have that job.

2. Talking About My Sex Life
"Are you sexually active?" No matter what, this question will always be awkward. End of discussion.

3. Being Poked
"Does this hurt?" I don't know. Would you like me to jab my fingers into your waist and ask if that hurts? About 90% of the time, I honestly would not be able to tell you whether it hurts from being prodded or if it hurts because I'm dying.

BONUS:
4. Going To the Doctor's When You're Feeling Particularly Shitty and You're Sure Death Is At Your Door, But They Tell You They Can't Find Anything Wrong
This is much too self explanatory.

Of course, I understand why they need to check all these things. However, that doesn't mean I'm not going to complain about it on my blog.

My Name Is Kat, and I Am An Anxious Driver

Bacon, bacon, bacon!

At this moment, I am lying down on my couch with my eyes half closed because I did not get enough sleep last night at all. Here are the (abridged) events of what happened:

A few friends and I got together to create the best meal ever. We went to Lucky's to go grocery shopping because we're serious about our cooking and therefore must buy real food as opposed to boxed or canned food. On our shopping list was bacon, orange juice, eggs...Did I mention bacon? We bought a colossal amount of bacon. We made our way back to the house and the magic began. (I'm not talking about Magic: The Gathering. Although, we actually did end up playing that later. I'm talking about real magic.) All of our bacon was seasoned with steak seasoning and cinnamon. For future reference, if you haven't tried seasoning your meat with cinnamon, you must do it. I'm not suggesting it, I'm saying it is crucial that you try it. You won't regret it. So anyway, we seasoned all of our bacon, and at this point, our dishes began to form. We made bacon strips, bacon weave omelettes, bacon bit omelettes, and bacon breakfast burritos. I could feel my arteries clogging just staring at our creations, and I mean that in the best way possible.

Visual aids:

Bacon weave omelette

We cooked and ate until about two in the morning. The entire experience may have shortened my life expectancy by a couple years, but it was worth it.

I am literally too exhausted to pick up my tablet to make any crappy drawings. (Okay, I lied. Not literally. I am, however, the most fatigued I have been in a while.) I was going to draw something about cats and boys, but that will have to wait until another time...

Whenever anyone talks about me going to college, I have an instinctive reaction; my mouth dries up, my brain melts into a puddle of confusion, and left eye begins to twitch uncontrollably, as if the muscles beneath my skin are overcompensating in fear that I may become comatose at any minute. (That probably doesn't even make sense, but in my case, it does.) I guess I find difficulty in saying, "I don't know what I want to do with my life despite the fact that most others expect me to do great things like become a doctor or a psychologist. Honestly, I'd prefer a career that allows me to sit on my couch all day and eat burgers until I explode." Thoughts like that prove troublesome to express without being set ablaze by judgement rays. At this point in my education, I'm kind of rolling with the punches (whatever that means). I just hope I don't roll into cardboard box in an alleyway with only a dirty sock puppet and a collection can to keep me company.

To lighten things up, I will leave you with a video that displays the fact that I get along with the 8 year old that I tutor better than most people my age. I am also clearly not mature enough to be applying to college and would fare better if given the option to ride tiny scooters as a career. Somebody make that into a career.

BUTTHOLES?!

Okay, I know I already posted today, but can someone explain to me why THIS is the first thing that comes up in my Google search bar when I type in the letter 'b'?

I already have enough trouble trying to convince people that I'm not creepy. I promise you that I do not search buttholes on Google all day. I only do it sometimes. Really.

My Process On How To Decide Whether to Be a Donor

Of course, I say this all with good humor. I'm not only signed up as an organ donor because I'm afraid of what other people will think or because the members of the donors' society greet each other with enthusiastic high-fiving. (But for the record, we do.)

Hypochondria and Other Fun Things

Yeah, I know. I've redesigned this blog about a thousand times now. I think I've finally settled on a theme and idea though. Honestly, I've most enjoyed putting my shitty drawings on here, so the shitty drawings will stay.