I don’t know about you, but I submerged from the womb as a completely pristine young lass, with a worldly view on life and a neatly trimmed Tom Selleck-style mustache. With my Olympic gold medal for Hockey (GODDAMNIT, CANADA) in one hand and a White Russian in the other, I simply strutted out of my mother’s vagina and onto the streets of Compton. It was there that I ended the War on Baggy Pants (which actually would’ve been done singlehandedly had my hands not been full, you see).

So, when I stumble upon my array of websites that I created when I was 14—Xanga, Livejournal, Deviant Art and the like—I’m obviously not ashamed. I don’t even mind when these websites deny my requests to delete my account (really, Deviant Art? You’re just so fucking attached to those overly manipulated, copyright infringed photos I posted of the Olsen Twins?)

Depicted: Years of our lives attempting to hide itself.

I have to admit, at 14 years old, I was undeniably insightful. I quoted Bright Eyes lyrics that I’d never actually listened to (CONNER O’BURST 4EVER), joined “BlogRings” on Xanga that promoted diligent moral high ground, such as “I’m So Glamorous I Piss Glitter” and “Degrassi Owns Me” (it was 100% intense, you guys!). I was a civil rights activist, armed with the brilliant retorts I’d crafted in middle school:

I think I’m gonna start saying, “that’s so straight” [even though I'm straight myself], if i keep hearing “that’s so gay,” etcetera… anymore. seriously, people. there are better adjectives out there. like fuckhead. i’m very fond of that one.

you bitches are so straight.

how’s that, bigots?

(:

Alas! There’s more insight from where that came from:

my boob hurts. but i think i’ll be emo and tell you my heart hurts.

All from the same entry! Holy mackerel, shit is some powerful political ammo. Entry to entry, I dedicated my time to not using the space bar on my keyboard, evidently, and to exploring the different uses to every cuss word I had ever heard (not much has changed there). Somewhere along the lines, however, I stopped utilizing so many different fonts, font sizes and formatting styles that I stopped creating  virtual collages of words – images so magnificent that I think my eyeballs just began menstruating. I bragged about holding up conversations with boys who actually ended up in juvenile hall or in boot camp, begging for nudes of underage asians in both circumstances.

I was one certifiable indie motherfucker. I had heard of Death Cab for Cutie once. I wore “vintage” clothing (more than a year old, duh), and I checked my dental rubber bands in rearview mirrors of occupied cars. I had to make tough decisions, like whether headgear would really be worth wearing in public, and I like, totally needed LJ to process my thoughts. Every blog entry was issued as publicly as settings would allow, because there were masses to be catered to (I’m pretty sure one time I got three unique commenters on one post).

I peaked at 14, hovering over an ancient Windows monitor. What have I accomplished since? Puberty? Barely. Gaining dignity? Perhaps in comparison. Truly achieving unclouded understanding of contemporary society (also jazz music)? Clearly, no future attempts at social commentary could ever measure up.

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Sir Nils Olav is Colonel-in-Chief of the Norwegian King’s Guard. How is that better than sex? Well he’s a fucking penguin. A king penguin to be precise (and ironic).

He has been in the service since 1972, despite the minor setback of dieing once in 1987, he has been kicking ass ever since.

His latest accomplishment was being knighted on August 15th 2008 with a statement from the King of Norway himself that Nils was “in every way qualified to receive the honour and dignity of knighthood”

Like a good Colonel-in-Chief, he gets to inspect the troops to weed out the weak. He is simply a badassery detector. You better cover up your love for Happy Feet around this gangster.

He has accomplished more than you ever will.

Don’t believe me? Watch the ceremony here:

Did you tear up? I teared up.

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I’ve never been water-boarded, and don’t plan on it, however I’m pretty sure this next example is damn close: having on wet shoes. Everyone knows the feeling of having their precious toesies amidst life’s equivalent to the ever frustrating “Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time” Water Temple (you know, the one that made you never finish that game and you’re secretly ashamed of the fact).

Shoes + Wet - Feet = Joy

So here’s the situation, you just walked 2 miles of successfully dodging puddles when your soon-to-not-be-friend pushes you into one. After disposing your friend in a nearby gutter (for irony purposes), you’ll develop the sudden loathing of yourself for not wearing boots that day. After you gather your dignity and realize the cops are probably on your ass for murdering that douche-friend of yours, naturally you’ll run your ass to your secret lair.

Either way; secret lair or prison, your shoes are going to get removed, and it’s going to be amazing. Don’t get too caught up in the moment and forget to take your socks off as well because *spoilers*, that’s pretty damn amazing as well. Once your shoes are removed, revel in the crisp crackling nudity your toes are now experiencing. Rub them. Squeeze them. Love them. None of these are recommended if you have Athlete’s Foot.

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