Are You Fat? Read to find out!

There's a banner running at the top of my computer browser with the message "Are You Fat? Take the quiz to find out!"

There's a couple things inherently wrong with this, so I'm just gonna dive right it.

1) Do people ever really need to ask themselves. "Hey, are you fat?". It's usually something that we have an idea about. Like, if your thighs chafe in a mini skirt, you have a hard time seeing your shoes without adjustment, and grunt when you get up from the sofa there's a good chance that you're a chunk. It's not like someone goes around thinking they're Jessica Alba, and after completing the quiz, realizes they're Rosie O'Donnell. Sweat when you walk up a flight of stairs? There's your answer.
2) I did not take this quiz, because obviously I know I've got a bod to die for; however, I'm having a hard time coming up with scientific questions that would answer said query. How about
- Do you own "The Clapper"?
-Have you ever paused for breath while walking through the food court?
-Is your name Kehly Hansen?
Results: You're fat.
(See Kehly jokes are funny again cause she's not fat. Climb aboard the train, folks!)
3) If a tub is delusional enough to believe that they're not fat when, in fact, they are, why would they desire to know the honest, un-sweetened truth. If looking in the mirror at cottage cheese bod isn't convincing you, I highly doubt that 10 yes or  no questions is going to do the trick, fat one.

My house is too cold to continue this note. I'm going to go curl up for body heat.

Laurel J. Freemyer

Baby, It's Not Cold Enough Outside to Trap Me Overnight With You, You Creep.

I keep having weird dreams. They're so realistic that when something sparks a memory of said dream, I have to furrow my eyebrows, purse my lips, and think long and hard about whether it actually, in fact, happened. This new phenom can be a good or bad thing. For instance, I sometimes have dreams that hot men ask me out on romantic dates, I step on the scale in the morn and discover that 25 pounds have melted from my ever-expanding chunk and thighs, and I have more than $1.13 in my bank account. Alas, all of these things cease to be. I had one the other day (a dream, that is) that I looked at my grades and got 3 C-'s and a D. If that indeed happens, I expect my father to backhand me a time or two and then force me to sell my body to lonely businessmen to pay back that $17,000. One of those things is happening on my own volition. I'll let you decide.

Onto other things, CHRISTMAS BREAK 200,000,077,777,777 (that would be Christmas Break two hundred twenty trillion seventy seven million seven hundred seventy thousand seven hundred and seventy.) When I got half way through typing and counting out that last sentence, I realized it was no where near as funny as it initially sounded; however, I had already invested too much time to turn back. I hope you all understand and harbor no resentment for my spiral into the hemisphere of non-funny. It's been a long journey.

Everyone seems to think the Christmas classic, "Baby, It's Cold Outside" is heart-warming and romantic. In reality, it's more like a creepy man with a singing voice like melted butter begging a woman desperate to escape, citing every excuse imaginable short of a venirial disease, to spend the night with him. I know if I were in that situation it would involve a lot less cheery tenor-mezzo alto harmony and a lot more genital kicks and mace.

Break has been nice thus far. I've done some decorating, (sitting, telling unpaid laborers how to move the tree, munching on a christmas cookie), eating and drinking (uncooked taco shells and vodka), and caroling (gimme gimme more gimme more). All and all, It's been everything I've hoped for (Katie and I making tasteless comments and speculating who got fat). Have a Merry Christmas, Everyone (except for Christine Webring).

Your Friend,
Laurel J. Freemyer

It's the most wonderful time of the year!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I'm sitting at work right now. Surrounded in a sea of beige and desperately hoping my boss will remain at lunch for the next 2 hours, therefore, nixing any chance of assigned me actual duties. A girl can dream, huh?

I absolutely hate it when my tummy rumbles in public. I promise that was not flatulence. It was just the digestive tract doing what it does best. No one believes that. No one.

Who's excited for Christmas? I am. I plan on partaking beyond the socially appropriate level. After an excercize session do I want water? No sir- Egg Nog for me. Who need peace and quite to sleep? I need peace and christmas music on painful decibals. 7 food groups? No sir, 1 food group for me, and that's sugar cookies. I'm going to eat, sleep, and shit Christmas, until that fateful day passes and I will count down the painful days until next year. Let's get jacked, kids. Let's get jacked.

I have a canker sore under my tongue that could halt a horse right now. I can only eat soft foods without cringing in pain and every other phrase out of my mouth is expounding on the severe pain resulting from this gash.

I've been hearing organ music all day. That'd be funny if I was talking about hearing someone rip ass (get it..organ music..like your organs...in your body..get it), but I'm speaking literally here. I'll hear something resembling a choir, mute Run's House, and discover that no such sound is occuring. I must be being followed by a sneaky herd of angelic carrolers. That's the only explanation.

Let's get our Christmas on,
Laurel J. Freemyer

Give me back my things, thief.

I'm am not having a good day. I certainly am not.

Reasons For My Shit Day

1) I traverse out to the Green Machine this morning and discover that some hooligan had looted the ol' girl at some point in the night. I, like any street wise youngster, left my doors unlocked and keys on the seat, and was taken extreme advantage of. My iPod, iPod car jack, and a blue duffel bag were all thieved. All of the clothes in my bag were strewn about here and there, but they only took the 99 cent, dollar store, piece of shiv duffle bag. I love criminals.
2) I nuclear bombed my Applied Mathematic test this afternoon. I mean I straight shit all over that thing. I don't understand...literally. I thought I had a strong grasp on the material, only discover I had not the slightest clue what was going on. I am never going to be in the situation where I need to figure out the probability of drawing a blue marble from a larger, more diverse sack of marbles. Who ever uses marbles anymore? No one. That's who.
3) My boots are giving off a very strange odor. Not something I'm excited about at all. Musty.
4) I have garlic breath.
5) My forehead itches from the sweet ass hat I'm sporting today; however, removing the hat simply is not an option. My hair is all sorts of messed up, and I'm not about to expose to world to this catastrophe.

I'll be rocking Iowa City this weekend, children, so I advise that you all grab a change of clothes and your game faces and meet me there!

Your Friend,
Laurel J. Freemyer

The Big 1-3.

This weather has incited the desire to pee my pants on more than one occasion this week. I just want to sing show tunes and gallop about. Go ahead and save your joke comparing me to a horse of any sort. Thanks.

Moving forward, this last weekend was certainly one to be remembered. In theory, that is, due to the regrettable fact that I actually remember maybe 1/4th of the shenanigans that took place. After Gabe y yo trekked our arses up to IA city and consumed multiple shots of vod with the women folk, we headed downtown where I literally lost 3 hours of my life. Kehly, Gabe, and Becca all visited the bars from what I've heard. I did not. So putting the pieces together, I think that I sat outside the bars in downtown Iowa City, harassing passersby and craving Chinese food for a solid 3 hours.

Oh, I also stumbled my way to the doormen at Etc. and took over their job. Seriously I sat in their chairs and started scrutinizing ID cards. Everyone was of age, which was disappointing. I would not hesitate to shout loudly and incoherently at anyone attempting to consume alcohol underage. I take my employment very seriously.

Saturday was very much like Friday, but with beer instead. I wasn't mad.

Something I've noticed lately that was strange about my upbringing: my parents were never concerned with potentially life-threatening storms. Whenever there were tornado warnings, sirens a-blaring, and lightening striking women and children alike, my mom would be like "Oooh, let's get a glass of wine and watch the storm from our completely glass room. Better yet, let's install a flagpole on the roof!" I never once went in the basement during a storm. I alway kind of wanted to though. I figured it would be like a little camping trip. We'd settle in the crackers and varmin and tell ghost stories till the break of day. I was deprived.

Iowa v. Iowa State game is rapidly approaching and happens to fall on the weekend of my day of birth. I'm going to attempt to convince one and all that I'm turning 13, and by golly I bet I can do it. Excessive ammounts of alcohol do things to reasoning skills...so I've read.

Send Your Presents and/or monetary gifts to 311 Kiewit Hall,
Laurel J. Freemyer