Monthly Archives: August 2012

“Bad day. Time for wine and eating my own weight in chocolate.”

The day started off badly when I flooded a bathroom that wasn’t even mine. I don’t have a picture because I was too busy nearly in tears, frantically apologizing, and flinging towels about the floor, but it looked something like this:

This is a pretty accurate depiction, actually.

I banged my head against Doyle’s car door in frustration, realized it was scalding hot, shrieked, jumped back, got in the car and promptly started to cry.

Yeah. It was one of those days.

So, I didn’t actually think it would get worse, but then there was a reprieve. It was like some deity was actively trying to cheer me up.

We had a visitor.

Fuck yeah.

A cat followed Chris Dyck into the house.

At that point, who was I to tell it to leave? It earned being in our house. I was grinning ear to ear like a crazy person while Chris Dyck went all about his business telling me that we couldn’t keep it and that it shouldn’t be in here and that he was allergic and whatever, but I didn’t care. I had my cat. It earned its place.


This cat was seriously so cool. It just waltzed in like it owned the place. Dyck meowed at the cat and the cat just yowled right back at him and Dyck kind of shrieked a bit and it was awesome because the cat totally won.

Apparently Chris’ eyes puff up and seal shut when he’s around cats, but this cat didn’t care one bit.

This cat would not stay out of Dyck’s room.

It just didn’t care.

Which is why this cat was so awesome. I tried to tell Dyck that the cat just really liked him and that he should take this as a sign that we should definitely have a cat, but Dyck wasn’t quite seeing things from my perspective. The cat just wanted to be friends and Dyck wasn’t even giving it a chance.

Why do you deny the love of an innocent animal, Chris? Why must you be so full of hatred?

I suggested that the cat should be named Grey, because that’s a cool guy’s name, or Watson, because that’s an amazing name for a cat, but Chris suggested that the cat should be named Get-The-Fuck-Out-Of-My-House, which just wasn’t cool, Chris. Not cool.

He pretended that he didn’t like the cat, but he did.

It’s hard to deny cat love.


Hee. This cat is totally lying on Doyle’s chair.

And then the cat was on my bed and we snuggled and I gave him food because on some bizarre chance, that same day Doyle’s mom gave us a can of cat food in case we came across a stray cat or something.

It was destiny.

Eventually Doyle got home and I bolted out of my chair for some reason and immediately he was all, “WHAT DID YOU DO” and I was like, “WE HAD A VISITORit’spossibleitwasacat” and he was all, “WHAT” and I was all, “WHAT” and then he fumed at me and stormed about the place ranting about how he left for only a few hours and I had already kidnapped a cat.

Then I pointed out that I had actually catnapped a cat and Doyle’s eyes went all bulgey.

His mom walked in and approved of my catnapping, so whatever, Doyle. Whatever.

In any case, I eventually realized that I didn’t actually know where the cat was anymore (“You kidnapped a cat and you lost it?!” “Catnapped.”), and after searching all over the house, we couldn’t find it. I concluded that it must have been some sort of magical escaping cat and Doyle concluded that I was an idiot.

Either way.

I thought the day was looking up, but then Dyck got a ticket and it was my fault and I felt awful so I offered to pay for it, but when we got home I still felt awful (and poorer), so I finished the rest of a bottle of rosé, ate a chocolate bar and a half, and went to bed feeling not much better but definitely more intoxicated.

It was a very healthy, productive day.

Except for that it was awful and I kind of just wanted to crawl into a corner and cry.

But there was an impromptu magical disappearing cat, so you know, not a total loss.


“Fuck boxes.”

This is what happens when I'm trapped inside a house all day with no internet and I'm done with everything.

Two books. Only two actual books. Nothing that actually goes in the bookcase that I was trying to organize, and the box was too heavy to lift back up the stairs.
This is why people punch babies.

Doyle: What have we learned?

Kelsey: Fuck boxes.

Doyle: What else have we learned?

Kelsey: Don’t throw boxes down the stairs just because you’re too lazy to open them and check the contents first.

Doyle: There you go.

“It’d look like we skinned Grover and put it out as a Lord-of-the-Flies-style warning to all the other puppets.”

While I was slaving away at work, the boys went to IKEA without me. Thanks, boys. Considerate.

So Dyck texts me about the color of couch cover we discussed earlier (I said black and he suggested rainbow and then called me an “idiot” when I said “We are not having a rainbow or zebra-striped couch” because apparently I was supposed to know that he was joking – which is something I generally never assume because Doyle has already shown me his zebra-striped couch cover), and I suggested that they send me a picture if they liked something and maybe we could agree on it together, even though I wasn’t there.

The boys have a funny way of interpreting things.

Doyle’s hand in something? I don’t even know.

Dyck: We really liked this.

Kelsey: What… what is this?

Dyck: Doyle’s hand in a trashcan.

Kelsey: …

I suggested pictures to be more productive. You know, like a real adult.

Then the pictures kept coming.

This is a horror movie. This is what a horror movie looks like, guys. That rug is the type of rug that would never, ever die. Ever. 

Dyck: We liked this.

Kelsey: Is… is that a blue rug?

Dyck: It’s going in your bedroom.

I don’t even know.

Dyck: We bought all of them.

Kelsey: What are they?

No response.

This is why they shouldn’t be allowed to go shopping without me anymore.

Dyck: We’re going to combine these.

Kelsey: Are those curtains?

He stopped responding, so I tried Doyle.

Kelsey: Chris, Chris is being mean to me. Make him stop.

Doyle: But… I liked the blue one.

Kelsey: If we put that in our living room it’d look like we skinned Grover and put it out as a Lord-of-the-Flies-style warning to all the other puppets out there.

Doyle: And?

Right. So.

Later that night I went to Doyle’s place. As I snapped a quick shot of my two charming roommates, they demonstrated just how much they care for me.

Yeah. That pretty much sums it up.

And also, because the boys think they’re cool (no, seriously),


This is why I tell people that I don’t know if I’m nervous or excited to move in with these people. This. This right here.

I’m just going to go cry in the corner of the bathtub now. No biggie.

“800 dollars for a fox is not a sensible purchase.”

Chris Doyle is watching his siblings at the moment while his parents travel abroad. As a result, he’s pretty bored and he asked me to “entertain him”. So, we had a phone conversation consisting of him bragging about how he got sixty pounds worth of Playboy magazines from an elderly cancer patient.

I hate to admit it, but that is kind of brag-worthy.

He spent the entire conversation trying to convince me of getting a pet fox (“I looked into it“, he says, urgently, as if that makes it a reasonable idea. “We could set the fox on fire,” was his follow-up argument, which is exactly why it wasn’t a reasonable idea) and that although a zebra-striped couch cover was tacky, he already bought it, so we might as well use it.

The only good idea that happened was covering Chris Dyck’s room with pictures from said Playboy magazines. I can get on board with that kind of thinking.

We aren’t nice to each other which is why the conversation turned to how I am a slut/harlot/the devil and how he is an asshole/the devil/a slut/harlot, and we also talked about needles, which he hates.

Kelsey: Can we get your ears pierced?

Chris: No.

Kelsey: But why?

Chris: I… (There was disbelief here.) needles?

Kelsey: Oh. Right. Well, you can’t even feel it. Actually, that’s a lie. You can. But it’s only a pinch.

Chris: Yeah, not convincing.

Kelsey: Please? I can make sure that they pierce the gay side even. That way we can go to clubs and the men will buy you free drinks. Because you’ll be beautiful.

Chris: I’m already beautiful.

Kelsey: Not as beautiful as you could be.

Chris: Besides, I don’t even drink that much.

Kelsey: But you could. You’ll learn.

Chris: See, usually I’m the bad influence. You’re being the bad influence here.

Kelsey: I’m not a bad influence. I’m just talking about going to get a piercing, and going to clubs and getting free drinks and – oh. Oh. Body mods and liquor. I am a bad influence.


[A pause.]

Kelsey: …we could get tattoos together!

Chris: Uh, no. Needles.

Kelsey: Actually, I was just about to say that I didn’t want to do that. I don’t want a tattoo. Hey, so, what if I slipped those drugs into your drink that keep you awake but unable to move and made you get a tattoo?

Chris: You mean roofies?

Kelsey: Is that what those are?

Chris: Uh, yeah.

Kelsey: Oh. Huh. Okay. So, roofies. What if I gave you roofies and had you get a tattoo? Would you still be my friend?

Chris: Uh, no. Absolutely not.

Kelsey: What if the tattoo was of a fox?

Chris: I would murder you. (Something about a blind, white-hot, seething rage and about cutting me open and my insides. I wasn’t paying attention, really.)

Kelsey: No, no! What if the fox was in a sailor suit? A professional sailor suit?

Chris: I would cut you open.

Kelsey: What if it was a fox in a sailor suit with boobs?

Chris: …you almost had me, but no.

Kelsey: Okay, so what if it was a fox in a sailor suit with boobs in one of the positions of one of the girls in your Playboy magazines?

Chris: Still no, because it would remind me of cancer. I would think of cancer every time I looked at it.

Kelsey: But that could be a good thing. We could even tattoo a little cancer ribbon next to the fox, and people would see your fox tattoo in a sailor suit with boobs and the cancer ribbon and think you were compassionate and thoughtful. I’d basically be doing you a favor.

Chris: …

Kelsey: I’m basically trying to work out the conditions in which it’d be okay to roofie you.

Chris: Yeah, there are none.

Kelsey: (Sigh.) Oh.

Chris: Besides, from now on, if I ever get roofied it’s going to be your fault.

Kelsey: What? How?

Chris: It just will be.

Kelsey: But what if I died?

Chris: Still your fault.

Kelsey: What if I died in a horrific car accident first? What then? You would be sad, right?

Chris: No, I would laugh. I would probably go to a club and drink, and then it would be your fault because you encouraged me to go out and do that, and then when some guy bought me a drink and roofied me, even though I’d feel remorse for your death, it would still be your fault for encouraging me to go out and get free drinks and some guy giving me roofies.

Kelsey: …so you’re saying you’d feel remorse for me?

Chris: …what?

Kelsey: Aww. You would feel remorse for my death. That’s so sweet.

Chris: …that is not the point of what I just said.

Kelsey: That’s what selective hearing is. You would feel remorse for me. I choose to hear just that and not the disemboweling. Aww.

Chris sighed a little bit and made a noise suggestive of disemboweling at me before changing the subject.

You know you’re okay friends when you can talk about giving the other roofies and being run over by trucks in horrific accidents and still have the conversation end on a high note.

“You… you were really bored, weren’t you?”

One day, Chris Doyle and I talked on the phone for about two hours.

This is significant because Doyle and I don’t generally chat on the phone. Usually, Chris calls me to ask me to do something or to tell me important things while he knows I’m sleeping, because A.) Docile and sleepy = less murderous, B.) He will generally get me to do what he wants, and C.) I’m pretty sure he just gets some sort of sick pleasure out of waking me up when I don’t want to be woken up. When we were in residence together, he and my friend Chelsea would habitually wake me up in the morning to talk to me, but he usually did it in order to get me to do things. He almost always got his way because I was too tired to tell him to leave. I remember hiding under the covers once when he was trying to wake me up.

I would literally hide under the covers to avoid him.

Either way. Yes. So. Conversation for two hours. I like to think it went on that long because we missed each other, but it may have just been mutual boredom. During that conversation, as I told him to visit me, we decided in a fit of giggles that the next time he visited, we would make ourselves mustaches and I promised cake and a Powerpoint with all the reasons why he should visit me.



Well, at least I look pretty.


(This photo is sad because it is the only photo I really have of me and Chris, and in it he looks sedated or like I used chloroform or something ((DOUBLE PARENTHESES: Also, totally didn’t actually sedate him)) as I try to lift my tiny arm over his shoulder and fail miserably. Thanks for ruining the only photo I have of us, Chris. Thank-you.)

This is Chris’ mustache. He thinks it makes him look like Hulk Hogan. I think it’s long because he is compensating for his regular lack of any mustache at all. It’s a fairly dashing ‘stache, to be fair.

I bought the construction paper and there wasn’t brown, unfortunately. Chris can pull off blonde, but I can’t. I had to look a little bit dyed. I still think I pulled it off.

If I could grow a lady-stache, I totally would.

Who am I kidding, I totally pulled it off.

Because I am brilliant and also an artist, I also tried to make Chris look like Bert from Sesame Street, which looked something like this:

Chris is pleased with me. You can tell.

I also tried to make him big, thick Bert eyebrows, but he said no and swatted me away for fifteen minutes and then tore my well-crafted Bert nose in half because Chris is a party pooper and a spoilsport and clearly doesn’t recognize artistic genius.

I also bought him a cake and even then he wouldn’t let me.

This is what I’m moving in with. This.


“Well, it’d be a little less awkward if I was still wearing clothing.”

Transcript of a text conversation had with Chris Dyck:


Kelsey: TEN DAYS


Chris: Lol, can’t get excited, I may have money issues. 5 courses this semester too, new for me.

Kelsey: Don’t worry about it now. We’ll budget, no worries. =) And if you need any help studying, Chris and I will help you! Besides, aren’t you excited just a little? To move in with us? =D

Chris: Wait, that’s what we’re doing? Fucccccckkkkk…

Kelsey: You looooove us. You want to liiiiiive with us. =D

Chris: Yes. Cohabitual murders are much easier to perform.

Chris: Please reply to that. My phone provider is going to contact the authorities.

Kelsey: Let them. We can host our first dinner party and have champagne and talk about police things when they come to arrest you. Later we’ll look back on this and say, “Oh, the fun that we had!”

Chris: Wait, they overlook rape?

Kelsey: You just made this awkward, Chris. Who’s raping who, here? See? Now it’s more awkward. This is why we can’t have nice things.

Chris: Well, it’d be a little less awkward if I was still wearing clothing.

Kelsey: You are odd and it unsettles me. One day I’m just going to have to waltz around the house naked just to unsettle you as you unsettle me. You did this to yourself.

Chris: This is why we can’t have nice things.