Let Get Flicked

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What is a Fuzzball?

  • One question I hear more than any other is What's a Fuzzball??" Allow me to explain:

    A Fuzzball is a 30-year-old fallen debutante who lives in Houston, TX with a bossy dog and an even bossier parrot who she SWEARS is the reincarnation of Napoleon Bonaparte.

    A Fuzzball prefers animals to most people, because people can really suck sometimes.

    A Fuzzball loves music, ALL music ALL of the time. If she's not listening to it, then she's singing it.

    A Fuzzball has a mad love for all things British, especially their actors.

    A Fuzzball is blissfully happy in a bookstore, preferably one with good music playing in the background. If you look under a Fuzzball's bed you'll usually find an entire library of books that she has dropped there after falling asleep reading.

    Fuzzballs are usually incurable romantics, ridiculously optimistic, and bent on making the world a happier place.

    Your typical Fuzzball will probably have a completely bizarre sense of humor. Just go with it, it will take you to funny places.

    You should also be aware that Fuzzballs are giant nerds. Seriously. Science fiction, computers, the whole shebang.

    Fuzzballs are also budding photographers. They love looking at the world through a lens and finding new ways to be creative.

    Oh...and you can also look for a Fuzzball in one of the best movies ever made. ;)

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To the 20-year-old Cecile:

You cannot fix broken people--no matter how much you try or how much they tell you they want to change. Instead, learn to appreciate the attributes in yourself that they desire.

Take college seriously. DO YOUR HOMEWORK. (see why we are friends?)

He is just not into you. No matter how good of a friend you are, how many times you change you plans for him or laugh at his jokes. He's. just. not. into. you. Or he's gay.

Don't try to dress like your six-foot tall and thin friend. You have a cute figure--flatter it.


I love it. Wait...does this mean no overalls? And...oh my lord...no leopard-print velour short-sleeve mockneck t-shirt???

Say it ain't so, sister. What will my past self do if she can't clean out your closet in the year 2000??

The Golden Child

If I had a time machine I would go back to last night and try to convince myself not to drink that last Old English 40 before grabbing a girls ass at a party who I thought was my girlfriend only to find it wasn't my girlfriend and ended up wasnt even a girl.

I would also go back to middle school and tell myself to blow off school because the grades are meaningless...but to invest tons of money in cargo shorts, capris, abercrombie, and ugh boots because i gotta feeling they're going to hit it big.

Then I would go back to high school to confront my egotistical big man on campus superstar wannabe self and confirm that he is indeed the big man on campus and is the coolest fuck in the world.

Then I would find the right time to sneak into the girls locker room...then realize how sad I was to do it because no girls at St. John's would be worth seeing naked.

I also would go back in time and steal money from the church collection plate when no one was looking...or people could be looking I don't care I have a time machine, what are they going to do about it?


Yay! I am really glad you commented on my blog so I could come over here and see what you would have said.

I love that 'maybe during the ceremony' comment.


Editor's note: The Golden Child is my brother Price, and his moniker is aptly chosen. He is indeed The Golden Child, due in no small part to the fact that my sister and I adore him. Price, you're a brat.

The Golden Child

P.S. "fuzzball"...no one...NO ONE (especially the GC himself) wants to hear about your brow wax. Although your blog readers may be interested to know that I recently sneezed all over my keyboard, leaving a huge snotball on my Q button, rendering it all but useless in this transaction. _uite a _uick _uality story? damn!


Hey, Golden Child: My blog, my brows. Get your own damn site. You can talk about you boogers, your public displays of drunkeness, or the massive man crushes that you have on half the athletes at UT.

Oh no she di'in't! BUUUUURRRRRRRRRN!



To my 12 year old self:

The teased up, sprayed stiff bangs are not hot.


Wash your hair, buy some bobbypins, and stop using cans of hairspray.


I LOVE this! You always have the way coolest stuff.

Here's mine:

20 year old self:

He's a jerk. Cute. Funny. But a jerk.

21 year old self:

He's still a jerk. And sleeping with him again is not going to change that. Even if it is a lot of fun. Ah, what the hell, go ahead and sleep with him. Just know he's a jerk.


What's strange about this topic is that I AM, in fact, a future-version of myself visitting the currently 24-year-old version of of me (via an impressive, though dated, time machine and my handy-dandy flux capictor, which I do not know how to spell...)

Anyways, I'm posting this 'cuz I know that 24-year-old-Me checks this site a lot. Here is my advice: FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, STOP READING WEBSITES ALL DAY LONG AND DO SOME ACTUAL GODDAMNED WORK. I AM TIRED, LONELY AND JOBLESS BECAUSE OF YOU... except now I have this time machine.. so I suppose all's well... eh.


Sorry, what was the question? I'm still trying to get my head around the name "Frans Vriesendorp."


Me, three hours ago:

Dude, don't eat that chimichanga!



You didn't play Stuff Portrait Friday!!

I wanted to see your stuff!!!


Hey Pete, gimme a break, the guy is Dutch. (His middle name is "Johann", by the way)



OK, since I knew Tracy back in the day, I must comment on her ramblings.

1. Yes, Tracy never did homework, but managed to charm and BS her way through high school. A skill in itself.

2. Frans Vriesendorf = Billy Budd

To my 18 year old self:

Take a year off. Travel. See the world. This is one of the few times in your life you will be willing to travel under such conditions (<$2 a night for bed smelling vaguely of feet -- sign me up!) And, its good way to shake the SJS/RO mentality out of you.

Buy some real estate. Its not as permanent as it sounds.

To my 8-10 year old self:

Giving hairdressers free reign with your hair is a bad idea. Especially in the mid-80's.


Okay I feel like I have to interject here:

For those of you who have no clue what the Billy Budd reference is, in 11th grade we were forced (and I DO MEAN FORCED) to read Herman Melville's Billy Budd. As a "treat" we "got" to watch the 1962 film version of the book. It starred Terence Stamp in his film debut, and when Stamp came on the screen my entire class yelled "OH MY GOD IT'S FRANS!!!" From then on poor Frans was called Billy Budd. (He was much better looking than stupid Terence Stamp, I must say...)

Also, I can testify to Shawn's hair woes...


Oooh, good one. Let's see. To my just-moved-to-Oregon/14-year-old self (half a lifetime ago):

-- Do not be afraid to talk to people.
-- Ignore that girl you'll meet the weekend before school starts who tells you she's sorry when you say what school you are going to be attending, because it's soooo snobby. Fret not. You're prepared.
-- Do not be afraid to talk to guys. (See above, re: people.) They will not assume you have a crush on them just because you say hello. OK, some will, but they're 14; it's natural.
-- Participate in class. It will prepare you for talking in meetings, and on panels, and on the phone with strangers ... and if you can learn to pull it off without doing the reading, it will help you even more.
-- Take photography classes. Lots of them.
-- Do not scream at your 2-year-old sister when she dumps out your entire seed bead collection into the carpet because you wouldn't want *that* to be her first memory of you.
-- Don't put potato peelings down the sink ever, but especially not two Christmases in a row.
-- On the Japan trip after freshman year, do not flash the peace sign in every single photo, even if everyone else is doing it.
-- Don't quit track. You aren't as bad a runner as you think you are. Just get some better shoes and insoles.
-- Also, I'm stealing that "can't fix broken people" thing from Cecile above.

Speaking of "back in the day," hi to Shawn from Sarah who moved to Oregon after eighth grade. Heh.

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