Tag Archives: gaming

My Response to “Michael Roseberry” And His Facebook Invite to Play “Diamond Dash”

11 May

michael roseberry


Alright, Michael. Before this goes any further, I’m going to have to ask you a few questions.

1. Who the “Dash” are you, and why are you inviting me to play anything?

Michael, I am pretty 100% positively sure that we have never actually met in real life. I’m also pretty sure we’ve never actually even met online. So, I guess my first question is… Who are you? How do I “know” you? No, seriously… And, more importantly, why are you inviting me to play a game with you? Do you think that I would personally enjoy “Diamond Dash?” Upon playing your first round of “Diamond Dash,” were you suddenly stricken with the thought, “OH! You know who would just LOVE this game? That one girl I’ve never actually met, ever.” Did you think that after a few weeks of playful banter, I would be able to bring out the most competitive streaks within you, possibly resulting in the most intense round of “Diamond Dash” that this side of the Mississippi has ever seen? Because I have news for you, Mr. Roseberry. I have no intention of playing “Diamond Dash,” or any other soul-consuming, time-digesting, motivation-mangling Facebook game. Ever. I apologize for any inconvenience this may bring you.

2. Are we even friends?

Michael, just hear me out on this one, okay? I don’t EVER remember accepting your friend request, Michael. I really don’t. I’m sorry if I don’t, and I’m sorry if you were counting on me to accept your invitation to play “Diamond Dash.” I’m sorry if my declined invitation meant that you didn’t get a high score for new recruits or something. That must really suck. Especially if “Diamond Dash” gives a portion of some vague money source to a charitable cause for every new recruit that they get within a certain amount of time. I’d hate it if my declined invite meant that somewhere, a puppy didn’t have a blanket or some shit like that. That would really suck.

3. What the hell is “Diamond Dash?”

There are really only three options in my mind:

Option Number One: You are one of the Seven Dwarfs, determined to DASH into the DIAMOND mine and get out more diamonds than the other six dwarfs. Whilst doing this, you are armed with a pic axe that you can use to DASH the other dwarfs’ little brains out. To this, I would ask: Why would you think I would enjoy a virtual game that requires so much virtual labor?

Option Number Two: You are a poorly animated DIAMOND who is training for a 5K. The DIAMONDS then DASH to the finish line, and the first DIAMOND to get across the finish line then becomes the shiniest of all DIAMONDS and basks in eternal luminescent glory. To which I would respond: Why am I an animated diamond running a marathon, and why are you, Michael Roseberry, inviting me to become an animated diamond who trains to run marathons?

Option Number Three: You tell 50 recently engaged women that the ring of their dreams is available to them… But there is only one ring. One ring… to rule them all. Now, ALL OF THE FIANCES MUST DASH TO GET THE DIAMOND!!! To which I would respond by saying… Michael? I’m not engaged. I do not have my husband. (If this concept confuses you, I urge you to read my previous post, “Another Husband-less Trip To Barnes & Noble.” It may help clear some things up.)

In conclusion, Michael Roseberry, I feel like you’re just taking things way too fast. Call me old fashioned, but maybe we should just slow this down a bit. You know? I don’t think we’re at a point to where you can just send me invitations to play games with you, and have them pop up in intimate little notifications on my phone’s home screen out of no where. Talk about feeling used. You could at least buy me dinner first. Or, you know, like… Friend request me.


7 Reasons Why Life Would Significantly Improve During A Zombie Apocalypse

8 Apr

1. Money would basically cease to exist. Forever. Worried about your current financial situation? Wondering how the hell you’re going to pay your rent this month? STILL paying off your car? Well recent 20-something college grads, go ahead and let out a collective sigh of relief. The Zombie Apocalypse is upon us, and we no longer have to worry about any of that! Think about it. Career plans would be tossed out of the window. “Oh, boo hoo, I went to college for four years to be this one thing and now I’m getting paid minimum wage to be something completely different from that one thing I wanted so badly but now don’t even know if I want it anymore, blah blah blah the world is so unfair to me it’s so hard being young and 20-something in this world” ZOMBIES ARE ROAMING THE STREETS. Ain’t NOBODY got time for that kind of thinking! Get a gun, get some food, get to high ground. Seriously. No body cares if you studied to be a lawyer or… a BRAIN SURGEON. (See what I did there?)

2.) All of the stupid people would die right away, or become Zombies, which (in turn) are acceptable to shoot in the head. Admit it. You’ve met some stupid people in your life. You’re not necessarily a VIOLENT person, but… given the option to fart in the general direction of the guy who cut in front of you in McDonald’s who then proceeded to ask how much a “Dollar Menu Fry” was, or just keep walking, you’d probably choose to fart on or around him. And what if… what if that guy just happened to become a soul-less zombie? Well then what? Are you just going to let him waddle around the McDonald’s, aimlessly staring off into the distance, groaning, and maybe infecting the chicken McNuggets with his rotting flayed flesh? Aw HELL nah! You’re going to get a cross bow, and you’re going to shoot that drooling idiot in his dollar menu head. How much is a dollar menu fry? THE PRICE OF YOUR BRAINS SPLATTERED ON THE GLASS DOORS OF MCDONALD’S, YOU UNDYING GROAN FACTORY OF ROT.

3.) We would all learn to use so many kick-ass weapons it wouldn’t even be funny. Cross bows. Rifles. Hand guns. Axes. Baseball bats. Swords. Broken branches of trees. Bombs. Fire throwers. Fricken NUMCHUCKS. And those really heavy spiky metal balls on the ends of chains that they used to use in the olden days!!!! I am not a violent person, but given the chance to seriously hurt or kill something in self defense… I’m not going to lie. I’d probably go pretty ape shit with it all and get really into it, like the overprotected 18 year old girls who literally go insane during their first semester of college. Only I’d be going insane during my first Zombie Apocalypse…. Seriously, my arms would be so toned. Which brings me to my next general life improvement…

4.) My arms would FINALLY be toned, due to the excessive lifting of heavy objects, like guns, limp bodies of our recently deceased loved ones, and the debris of decaying buildings. No, but really… EVERYONE would be sexier, due to the immediate demand of intense physical activity. EVERYONE would start getting in shape! And if they weren’t getting in shape, it’s because they were too fat to out run the zombies, and now they’re basically doing what they did while they were alive: roaming the earth in search of food. So we’d just get to shoot the fat useless zombies, and enjoy the sexy transformations of all the agile humans around us. Which brings me to my next point…

5.) Relationships would suddenly feel more intense, due to never knowing if you’re going to live for years or die tomorrow. It’s kind of like the entire idea of love would become that moment, that single night before the love of your life ships off to war in the morning. Think about how intense and interesting that would be. “Oh, you’re one of the last few living people on this earth who isn’t trying to eat my brains out, and you’re a (insert preferred sex), AND you have sexy arms!?!? Let’s do this thang.” Say goodbye to the bro code, the pick up lines, the bars and second-guessing. Hell! Forget dating games, period. This shit’s serious. Absolutely no body would care if you’re 28, lost your job, still can’t spell “restaurant” without using spell check, and don’t have a car. Guess what? You can finally act out that Grand Theft Auto fantasy and STEAL ONE like a BOSS.

Then again, I guess first dates wouldn’t change too much. They would still consist of grabbing a bite to eat (foraging for food in remote/abandoned places while in fear of your lives), telling each other about your families and pasts (“Well, my mom got bitten, you know… and almost ate off my left arm, well- that is- until my little 8-year-old brother picked up a near-by pitchfork and stabbed her in her head before she could bite down. That was kind of a lot. But we were all really proud of him that day… That was actually yesterday. Night.”)  and the timid goodnight kiss at the front door (“So… should we like, climb up this tree and attempt to do it before more zombies come this way?”)

6.) Pop culture would FINALLY cease to exist. Let’s just take a moment to imagine this, okay?

Justin Beiber… as a ZOMBIE.

I’m just saying…

If I was your boyfriend, I’d never eat your brains. Unless I was a Zombie. And then I’d eat your brains.

Imagine shooting your least favorite pop stars in the head. How fun would that be?!? And you wouldn’t have to feel guilty at ALL because you’re doing the world a grand service by shooting Kim Kardashian’s brains out!!!


7.) I could finally prove to everyone that I really WOULD win the Hunger Games. Well, okay I’ll be honest: I don’t really think I’d win the Hunger Games. I can’t stab other kids and shoot them and cut their throats out just because the government tells me to do that. But if I had to protect my family or the people I loved from other people or ZOMBIES trying to kill them? Lesbihonest. I’d probs win the Hunger Games. Like, if the Hunger Games were actually a Zombie Apocalypse that didn’t take place in a huge stadium, but rather… like, the world? I’d win the Hunger Games. For sure. No doubt.

A Conversation With My Sister.

16 Feb

Caitlyn: Why don’t you audition for Star Wars Weekends with me? You could stand next to me so they could see our similarities.
Me: Yeah… I mean why not? It’s not like I’d have anything to lose.
Caitlyn: Exactly.
Me: But I couldn’t be Slave Leia.
Caitlyn: Probs not. They’d be like “Well… here’s the bikini from last year. Why don’t you try this on.”
Me: And I’d be all, “And here’s my cellulite from THIS year!” (Big cheesy smile and thumbs-up sign while sticking butt out)
Caitlyn: (Laughter)
Me: No seriously, who else could I possibly play, besides Jabba?
Caitlyn: Um.. Maybe you could be Zam Wesell.
Me: Who in the world is “Zam Wesell?”
Caitlyn: The bounty hunter! She’s the one who wears the sexy purple body suit, remember? She’d also wears that cloth thing that basically covers her entire face…
Me: Can you imagine!?
Caitlyn: Hey! At least it would cover your nose!
Me: (Imitating the audition) “Mm, yes, Caitlyn looking good as always… and… Oh? We see you brought your… sister. Carolyn, is it? Okay, Carolyn if you could… just… Yeah, take your hand… that’s right. Take your hand and just… (Puts hand over bottom half of face.) Right, yes… and now, with the other one…? (Takes the other hand and covers forehead so now all that is showing are my eyes.) Yes… hm… Steph, could we work with that?”
Caitlyn: Oh stop! She’s really sexy, she wears purple!
Me: And her entire face is covered! It’ll cover the Crow Nose!
Caitlyn: HAHAHAHA!!!
Me: Caitlyn if I didn’t get considered for something that covers my entire face I think… I think I’d probably just jump off  our balcony.

Annnnnnd for those of you who don’t know Star Wars, here is a picture of Zam Wesell. The girl I’d want (?) to play:


And, here is a picture of the character I would most likely play:



105_2294Maybe I’ll just use this picture as my headshot for the audition.

The Fastest Way To Turn Me Off

22 Oct

Day 41 of the 90 in 90 blog challenge.

The fastest way to turn me off is to have a piece of your lunch stuck in the space between your big tooth and the next one over. You HAVE to know it’s there. It’s just…so big. And it’s just… staring at me. You’re talking and making jokes and trying to make me laugh, and I’m smiling and nodding because I feel like I have to, when I’m really trying to figure out if you ate a hamburger or a brownie. I actually feel guilty, because you, my good sir, have poor dental hygiene. Do you understand that? YOU are making me feel guilty for YOUR oral shortcomings. (…That’s what she said….) No but really… it is.

The fastest way to turn me off is to not open the door for me. Why wouldn’t you do that? Like, why not? That’s like, How To Be A Gentleman, Chapter One. No, screw that, that’s not even IN the book because it’s just expected. Did some crazy woman in your past smack you across the face after you opened the door for her, screaming “I CAN OPEN MY OWN DOOR!” and abandon you in the doorway of Applebee’s? Because I’m pretty sure no one ever did that to you. I’m a fast walker, and I’m not going to do the whole “I’m going to walk slowly to time this out correctly so that you get to the door before I do, or at least we arrive at the same time…” thing. You are five inches taller than me. Your legs are at least three inches longer than mine. Keep up, and open the door. Please.

Maybe the fastest way to turn me off is to burp and blow it in my face and laugh and think that that’s flirting. It’s not flirting. That’s disgusting. Especially after you’ve eaten three hotdogs. With relish.

Or, you can turn me off when you scratch your sweaty armpit and then scratch your nose absentmindedly two minutes later.

When you don’t tell me I look nice after I’ve spent TWO HOURS of my LIFE getting ready, well- that kind of makes me want to scream, “DONT YOU EVEN CARE THAT I HAVE SOMEHOW MANAGED TO WEAR EYELINER AND HEELS IN THE SAME DAY?!?”

I get turned off when you brush my leg and say “Ooo! Babe! …That’s prickly!” Okay look… I can’t just have my legs feeling silky smooth at every moment that I’m in your masculine presence. I am a human being, and I have hair, and I get goosebumps sometimes…just like you. I shaved last night. What more do you want from me?!

Also, I get turned off when you call me “babe.” It makes me feel like you call everyone that, and I don’t want to be your “everyone.”

I get turned off when you ruffle my hair. Yeah, sure, it’s cute but… I spent at least seven minutes meticulously placing every hair to hide my split ends and frizz. I’m going to need you to find a different way to flirtatiously tease me.

I get turned off when you haven’t read Harry Potter. And I’m not even going to apologize for that. Those were the books of our generation. If you haven’t read them, I judge you. And! If you did read them and you just “didn’t like them,” well… then we’re not going to be going on a second date, now are we? Nooo.

I get turned off when you don’t like fishing. I blame my father for this. But I won’t apologize for it, either.

I get turned off when you don’t like dragons. Dragons are probably the most bad ass mythical creature of any mythical creature… except for maybe griffins. And even still, a dragon could kill a griffin in like, one second.  If you don’t like mythical creatures, I question you. I question your manhood when you are indifferent towards dragons.

I get turned off when you quote every funny line of every funny movie you’ve ever seen in a ten minute period. I get it- you like funny movies. But they’re not as funny when you’re saying the lines. Keep the funny stick in your pants, Boso.

I’m turned off when you don’t say “bless you” when I sneeze. I know that’s ridiculous, but what am I supposed to do if you don’t say “bless you?” Just sneeze all over myself and proclaim “Bless me?!” That feels very strange. And yes, saying “bless you” after sneezing is an ancient social habit, originating from early peoples thinking that sneezing was the devil coming out of you. I know it’s stupid. But the only thing that’s more stupid than this ancient human habit is me being forced to bless myself. Just… don’t make me do it.

I’m turned off when you engage in conversation with my breasts, instead of my face. My lips are the ones speaking. If you’re not going to look in my eyes, at least look at my lips. They’re moving. And forming words. My boobs can’t form words. They’re pretty cool, I know, I live with them every day. But when it comes to doing tricks, they can’t do that. I promise.

I get turned off when you laugh too loudly at a quiet restaurant, like you’ve got to prove to us, and to the people around us, that we’re having a good time. If we’re having a good time, I think we’ll both know. Heck, and if you’re not sure, I’ll let you know! I’ll brush your ankle with my foot or something, I promise. Just… stop scream-laughing at the family of four behind us. Please.

I get turned off when you haven’t played Skyrim. (Again, this goes back to the dragon thing.) I get even MORE turned off if you’re playing and you don’t offer to let ME play. I like watching better, I promise. But I like when you at least offer me a chance to show my village slaughtering skills with an axe blade, okay? That’s romance right there.

I don’t like it when you don’t like animals. I actually question if you have a soul when you avoid cats and dogs. If you can’t see yourself owning pets, I can’t see myself saying, “I do.” That’s just the way it is.

There are plenty of other turn offs. But these are probably the biggest ones.




I’m Walkin’ On Gibberish… WOOAAH!

15 Sep

Day 5 of the 90 in 90 blog challenge.

“I don’t know if I’d rather be at home fisting myself, or doing this show right now.”

This is an actual quote from an actual cast member of “Hot Summer Nights.” The fact that sitting at home and fisting yourself could actually be a bit more enjoyable than performing the show, again, for the 708th time, should illustrate just how difficult it is to “keep it fresh” and “exciting” and “new.” I honestly don’t know how people on Broadway do it.

Actually, that’s a lie. The people on Broadway are in shows that actually have a plot. They get to tell a story every night. Not only that, but they get to tell that story to people who are paying BIG BUCKS to see them. They don’t have people who walk in front of their stage holding a giant reggae banana, pause for a moment as if to be considering their talent, dance moves, and worth as a person in general, and then walk away because they have something “better” to do.

I’m really not as bitter as I’m making this sound. I’ve really enjoyed every moment of this summer, even if I have been performing for dysfunctional, sweating, pissed off, trashy-tattooed humans who are gorging themselves on dippin’ dots and foot long hotdogs. There’s something hilarious about the ludicrousness of it all, and if nothing else, I’ve learned how to laugh openly at myself. Onstage. In front of an audience. Just, openly laugh out loud at myself, my life, and my choices.

Kind of like the other day when I just… decided to not know my solo. Literally. I don’t know if any of you have ever done this, but have you ever gotten up in front of people to do the SAME solo you’ve done perfectly 20 million times before, and suddenly, the knowledge of what comes next, the words, the melody… it all just WHOOOSH goes out the window? And you’re stuck there, holding your microphone all like, “Why is this happening to me?” But the music just keeps playing, and you know that whatever comes out of your mouth is just going to have to be good enough…

It happened during Walkin’ On Sunshine.

This is how it is supposed to go:

Me (Walking from platform to platform) : I used to think maybe you love me, now I know that it’s true!
But I just can’t spend my whole life just a-waitin’ on youuu.
Now I don’t want you back for a weekend, not back for a day.
Cause baby I just want you back, and I want you to stay!

What Actually Happened:

Me (Walking from the stage left platform to the center stage platform): I used to think maybe you love me, now I know that it’s true!
But I just can’t wait-! (OH crap, I said the wrong word, how am I going to make this rhyme now?!?) … for the… (C’mon, Carolyn, you’re a writer! Make something up!) …time, well, I’m sure… (I’m so screwed.)…. brudnle… (Oh!!! We’re making up a new language now?! Is that how you fix this problem? You’re a moron, do you hear me!? YOU ARE A MOR-)  …youuuuu…

Aaaaand in case you missed it! Here it is in its entirety:

“But I just can’t WAIT-… for the.. time, well, I’m sure… brudnle… youuuuu…”

I can barely keep my eyes open, I’m so ashamed. I just want to crawl under the platforms, curl up like a slug sprinkled with salt and die. Just wither away and die. I know better than to look at my castmates, for fear of bursting out into laughter or tears of shame, so instead I do the second most scary option, and look out to the audience…

Two large women sitting on a blanket are looking at each other. One of them mouths, “What did she just say?!” The other shrugs her shoulders and looks at me as if I just started screaming a Shakespearean monologue in the middle of Walkin’ On Sunshine.

At this point, the other performers are all below me doing ridiculous choreography, and they all just… stop. Kind of. It’s like someone took a giant syringe and sucked out all of their drive and confidence, and replaced it with a “what the hell just happened” serum. They all look up to me for answers. Matt is actually crying because he’s laughing so hard. He is having a hard time dancing because of his contracting stomach muscles. I’m so embarrassed and angry with myself, the part of my brain that tries to always be “one step ahead”  just gives up.

Me: (Looking to them with a face that says, “Yeah I just said some gibberish on stage. What? You think that’s funny!?!”) Now I don’t want you back for a weekend. Not back for a daaay.
I said BABY I just want you BACK and- (Oh sh*t, not again… ARE YOU EFFING KIDDING ME-)… I want you my waaaay. (OOOOOH, so we’re at BURGER KING now!?! Awesome. Yep. Great job, Carolyn. Yeah! Keep workin’ for that rehire.)

Only two more days. That’s it. Just two of them. In 48 hours, I will finally be done with my #themeparklife. I don’t know if I should celebrate, laugh, or cry. Maybe I’ll do all three.