5 life hacks you absolutely must follow or you’ll be dead by Friday

1. Taupe is your colour. That’s right, taupe.

2. Attach paperclips to a hanger, then put in your freezer to avoid thinking about your credit card debt.

3. If you’re driving in snow and spin out, pour a bucket of hot water under each tire. Seriously. Your neighbours won’t laugh at you.

4. Put a piece of white bread inside your shirtsleeve to soak up sweat.

5. Get 37 people to retweet you within exactly 29 seconds, and a unicorn will appear to grant you one wish.

Your muscles: a user’s guide

A user guide to your muscles.png
Hello and welcome to your new muscles! They’re not really new, of course; you’ve had them for 30-some years. But because the only greens in your diet are lime-flavoured jellybeans, and you’ve spent approximately 97% of your waking hours hunched in front of glowing rectangles, your muscles have entered a new phase of deterioration.

The following FAQ will help you understand exactly how terrible the rest of your life will be.

Why are my muscles in constant pain?
You have to understand that your body has upwards of 850 individual muscles and each one of them hates you.

This is how I would have expected to feel at, like, 60.
Yes, your body has effectively given up, which has accelerated your aging process. By 35 you’ll feel like you’re 80, and by 40 you’ll feel like you’re 127.

I see other people doing things like sitting on picnic blankets and carrying everyday items including books, groceries and purses without this seeming to cause them serious pain. Is it appropriate to stare at them as though they’re three-headed aliens who teleported here via a ring of purple fire?
Sure, I guess.

What can I do to make this better?
You can pay a hipster osteopath $97 to stab you in the leg with a needle and call that ‘acupuncture’.

Uh-huh, so you’re saying there’s nothing I can do?
You can spend thousands of dollars and several futile years with physios, massage therapists, chiropractors, osteopaths, yoga instructors, pilates instructors, doctors, reiki masters and a man who believes that muscle trauma can be healed through immersion in pickle brine.

Will any of that help?
The pickle brine guy has a lot of positive Google reviews.

What if I just have a nice hot bath?
Most bathtubs were purposefully designed to fuck up your neck.

Maybe I should just spend the next fifty years lying down.
Lying down causes your lower back to seize. Also, you still haven’t found a pillow that prevents your neck pain. Here’s the secret: no such pillow exists!

What if I ate some broccoli?
As if you’re going to eat broccoli.

No really, I found this soup recipe and also green smoothies are a thing.
And? How is it?

OMG it’s like chewing a pine tree why does my body even want this?
Your taste buds also hate you.

A letter to the cactus in my apartment’s recycling bin

An Letter To The Cactus In My Apartment Recycling Bin
Dear Cactus,

I don’t want to alarm you. I suppose earlier this week you were chilling out, doing your photosynthesis thing in one of my neighbour’s windows. And now you’ve found yourself shoved in this recycling bin, mostly buried under unrinsed beer bottles and partially crushed egg cartons. A sudden move like that would be a big adjustment, I’m sure.

But I’ve got some bad news. Are you ready? Here goes.

I am pretty certain cactus recycling doesn’t exist. Yet, I mean! Doesn’t exist yet. It, definitely will, uh, sometime. It’s up there among other top societal priorities, probably. But at this moment in time – which happens to be the moment in which you’re in a recycling bin – cactus recycling is not a thing.

Unless I’m wrong. Maybe I’m wrong! I get most of my news from Snapchat so I’ve been known to be out of the loop on occasion. And I still haven’t even listened to Lemonade, so who knows? Maybe the city has only just introduced its brand new Cactus Recycling Initiative as part of a future-facing seven-point plan to combat climate change, and here I am, completely oblivious and spouting off like an idiot.

Nope. Just Googled it. No cactus recycling.

I want you to know I would have pulled you out. Really. You looked healthy and I bet you would have got along swell with that philodendron on my windowsill. If whoever shoved you in the bin had just placed you on the floor alongside the white leather sofa with only two cushions and that stain shaped like Nicaragua, someone probably would have taken you home before I ever had the chance.

But the thing is – look, you were in the bin pretty deep, and you’re covered in spikes. I mean, obviously, you’re a cactus. So it wasn’t like I could just reach in there and – well, you understand.

What I’m trying to say is – I’m sorry. And I hope that, before you get crushed into pulp in the back of the recycling truck, you get to spike someone really good. I hope you draw blood, buddy. I’ll be laughing with you, you just remember that. Godspeed, recycling bin cactus. Give ’em hell.

In solidarity,
Ashley

 

7 signs your thesis may be imminently due

thesis-jokes-ashley-kalagian-blunt
You have run out of hand soap and are now using shampoo instead.

You envy people in prison because at least they get to sleep.

Your grocery list is MLA formatted:
Tiger, Tony the. (2017[1952]) “Frosted Flakes,” Kellog’s, n. pag.

You’re also using shampoo as dish detergent. Your dishes smell like ylang-ylang.

You’ve forgotten your husband’s name. Maybe … Bill?

You fantasize about giving Theodor Adorno a wedgie.

Discovering you’ve run out of shampoo results in three hours huddled under your desk, crying.

A discussion with my body re 2017 KPIs

Me: Thank you for meeting me today. I’m hoping we can agree on a set of strategic KPIs for 2017.

Body: Sure, whatever you say.

Me: Well, that’s the thing – we make plans and then you just do your own thing. It doesn’t really feel like you’re a team player.

Body: I don’t see you going along with any of my plans.

Me: I’ve already given you all of January to do whatever you wanted, which was apparently to eat Cheetos while watching every single mockumentary on Netflix. It’s time to get serious about this year. My strategy has two main objectives: developing muscle tone and maintaining a vaguely professional appearance. Each objective has three sub-points, starting with –

Body: My main plan is weird chin hairs. Lots of them.

Me: What? No! No one wants that!

Body: Also random wrinkles. Like, vertical cheek wrinkles.

Me: That’s not even a thing.

Body: … yet.

Me: This is what I mean, we’re working against each other. I spend an hour at the gym and then another hour with the tweezers, and you undo it all overnight!

Body: Hey, re-growing those hairs is hard work.

Me: It’s wasted effort! You could be using that energy to, like, develop some abs.

Body: You could be feeding me Cheetos.

Me: 2017 is not the Year of the Cheeto! 2017 is the Year of Beet Salad and Cross-Training and Actually Wearing Some Make-Up to Work Most Days.

Body: Beet salad, really?

Me: It’s got fennel, I thought it was –

Body: Okay, sure.

Me: Look, can you at least stop twisting out of pelvic alignment immediately after I pay $78 to see the osteopath every week?

Body: You clearly don’t know me very well.