THE NEW HOME OF OH HAY IT’S KK

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Speaking of laughing and smiling, and because everyone knows how much I love criminal defense and I’m a bleeding heart liberal and blabbity blah blah blah, I am SO excited about this new project over at Not That Kind of Girl . You can bet I’ll be participating, and it would be worthwhile for you to do so as well!

If you follow me on Twitter, you know that I’m twenty-four hours into my lactose fast. Not that you’re really all that interested, but I’m definitively less bloated. Unfortunately, my stomach still hurts, but I’m going to write that off to all the sugar in the Starbucks Iced Soy Chai I had earlier this morning. Sugar and I are not BFFL, but I eat it all the time anyway. Fellow lactose shunners, share your tips. Fellow sensitive stomach possessors – let’s all hold each other and weep softly about how we may never be able to shoot tequila while eating cupcakes.

It always really bothers me when I’m in the library or something and someone looks over my shoulder, and I’m inevitably reading Gossip Girl recaps because I have the attention span of a gnat, and said individual says something along the lines of, “Glad to see you’re working hard on that memo!” [chortle]. Just leave me BE. I’m not bothering you. I work in my own way. I haven’t failed out of law school yet, and I don’t plan to do so. Best that you keep your thoughts to yourself.

Another thing that gets under my skin (here I go with the complaining again) is when I’m late for something, which, despite my genetic propensity for tardiness (sorry Mama!), isn’t very often, and obviously harried and flustered and someone remarks, “Nice of you to show up.” Really? As if I’m late just because I felt like it?

It’s all good and well, I suppose, as long as you don’t mess with Plum Pudding:

I was late to work today because of a disabled train and a ton of traffic on my bus route, despite having left my apartment ridic early in light of the fact that I have to leave work early today for yoga. Fortunately, over the past two years of having my life depend on public transit in Boston, I’ve let go of a lot of my hatred for the T. It’s not like hating it will make it run any faster. What I haven’t quite loosened my grasp on is the generally appalling behavior of my fellow T riders.

Of course, we have our garden variety pole leaners , which I won’t even bother to get into, because anything that appears on 2 birds, 1 blog on any given day is at least eighty percent funnier and on-point than anything I’ve ever written. In sum, just click the link.

There are, however, several other types offenders whom I encounter on a daily basis who piss me off just as much as a pole leaners. If I could replace the sex offender registry with people who offend other people on the T, complete with levels and reporting requirements, I would do it in a heartbeat.

First of all, let’s just take a moment to talk about the sect of the population who doesn’t seem to grasp the concept that the people on the train need to exit before the people waiting for the train can enter. Not only is it polite, it just seems like good spatial reasoning. People leave, and there’s more room for other people to get on the train. Simple. Simple, except there are people who don’t do it. I understand that you need to get somewhere super important and you’re wearing super important khakis and carrying a super important briefcase, but I should not have to practically bump uglies with you to get off my train because you don’t have the decency to feign patience. I once had words with a drunk BU student about her aggressive maneuvering onto the train before I had gotten out the doors. I hope those words still haunt her, because they were extremely colorful and Barnaby the Fish had to wash my mouth out with soap when I returned home.

Equally bad are people who put their bags on the seats during rush hour. Oh, I’m sorry, does your SEPHORA PURCHASE need a place to sit and rest its legs? I can see that your MESSENGER BAR must be really exhausted from being on its feet all day. Yeah, that BACKPACK really has a tough life, what with all the carrying it does. Meanwhile, there’s a pregnant lady and a guy with a broken foot trying not to fall on their faces.

The worst offenders though – and oh my gosh I can’t even talk about them without shaking with rage – are people who refuse to slide to the inside seat when they plop down in an empty two-person row. These are the Level 3 people, if you will, and they should have to inform their neighbors. Including me. Or just wear a scarlet letter. SOMETHING. If someone can give me a valid health or other compelling reason why these people don’t slide over, please, post it so I can understand. If you PERSONALLY have a valid health or other compelling reason why you don’t slide over, I suggest you carry a note with you from your doctor so you don’t have to wear the scarlet letter of non-sliders. Until then, all I can offer you is death stares, because I’m far to proud to climb over you to the inside seat.

This has nothing to do with today’s post. Except I love it and you should all know about things I love.

I’m making another post in list form. Do you know why I write posts in list form? Because I’m too lazy to make transitions between thoughts. There. I said it. And here I am, all surprised that instead of having a book deal or a critically-acclaimed advice column, I write for free on the internet.

This post is brought to you by my awkwardness. I think people think I’m not awkward (a poorly constructed sentence if I ever saw one). I generally come off fairly confident, I’m reasonably decent-looking, and high school was one of the highlights of my life. Judging by these statements, I’m not only awkward, I’m also rather arrogant. Regardless, half the time I don’t even know why Barnaby the Fish lets me out of the house in the morning. Here’s why:

1. I’ve never been able to eat a meal without spilling food on myself. This is why I have a Tide Pen on hand at all times.

2. I’m almost always visibly bloated. Seriously. If you were to look me up and down (sexy!), you’d be like “Okay, face, shoulders neck…legs feet…hidden pregnancy. Done.” Recently I’ve come to attribute this to the fact that I have some sort of mystery food allergy that causes me to constantly look like I might have a bun in the oven, but really it’s probably just that I eat a lot of sugar and drink beer frequently. I’m tracking my food on the Daily Plate these days, and every single day at like, 10 AM, they’re all OMG WHY DO YOU EAT SO MUCH SUGAR YOU ARE SLOWLY KILLING YOURSELF.

FYI – not willing to give up beer or sugar. Ambiguous pregnancy it is!

3. I find it impossible to tell a linear narrative. Anyone who has ever heard me tell a story exceeding thirty seconds in length knows that I tell awful stories. This is largely caused by two important deficits on my part. The first is that I’m easily distracted by other thoughts. This leads me to either forget the point I was making and just stop talking, or to veer off into other stories with marginal relevance to the original story. I frequently wish I could just write out stories like court opinions, and add footnotes at the bottom so no one has to listen to me try to stumble through sixteen stories at once before I get to the freaking point. The second issue I have is that if I’m telling a funny story, I start laughing halfway through it, and usually I’m laughing so hard I can’t even finish the damn story. So no one ever learns what the point of the story was, and I’m the only one laughing.

4. No, I’m REALLY bad at telling stories. Most of the time, I’m fairly sure I’m the wittiest person on Earth. With the best stories (see above). Frequently I find myself relating what I start out thinking is a HIIIII-STERICAL incident to others, and halfway through my monologue I realize that no one else is going to find what I’m about to say humorous in the least. At that point, I reach a crossroads of sorts – do I continue the story and risk the sound of crickets and the disparaging looks of my colleagues, OR do I just stop talking? Which is worse? Readers, I put this important question to you for a vote.

5. I rarely, if ever, think before I speak, which makes most of my original jokes suck. This is best illustrated by an incident that occurred several days ago, when I tried to add a tip to my hairdressing bill. Because I’m not so good with those things they call numbers, I added the tip wrong, and the receptionist corrected me, to which I replied, “Ha. Ha. Good thing I went to law school and not MATHEMATICIAN SCHOOL, AMIRIGHT??? HAHAHA.” She just stared at me. Upon further reflection I realized that I don’t think there is such a thing as mathematician school, but I just Googled it to be sure. There’s not.

6. When I run into people I know unexpectedly, I hide instead of saying hello. If we don’t have a scheduled time to meet, I basically don’t want to talk to you. More like, I don’t know HOW to talk to you. If I see you on the plane, train, or automobile (yeah I don’t know), I just…I don’t know what to say. I can get through hi, how are you, I’m great, and then I’m done. Usually I try to pretend I don’t see whomever it is and try to avoid the whole shebang by ignoring them. Sometimes I hide behind aisles or poles. Sometimes I pretend to be really intent on my book or something and all like OOPS I DIDN’T EVEN KNOW YOU WERE THERE!

Share your awkies now. I need to know I’m not alone.

1. Jalapeno chips. I’ve eaten almost a whole bag today. I might throw up, but man are they delicious.

2. When Intervention airs episodes about eating disorders (double points if the individual is also an alcoholic). What can I say – I’m really rooting for that crowd.

3. La Roux – Bulletproof

4. Word Bubbles . SOMEONE got me hooked on it. And now I probably need to go on Intervention for it, actually. An alcoholic Word Bubbles player. Almost as good as an eating disorder.

5. The demise of Speidi .

6. My nail polish has lasted almost all week without chipping.

7. Now I get to go home and take a nap.

THE END.

I diligently flipped through the course catalog, noting that I could take yoga, tennis, scuba diving (yeah I don’t know either), kayaking…and then I got to the dance section. Ballet I? Done and done.

This requires some explanation, I suppose, because I can’t expect you fine people to make the inferential leap from my study of dead languages to my sudden desire to pirouette my way through fall semester. I’ve always harbored this strange certainty that, given the tools and proper training, I could have been a fantastic dancer. Just absolutely ace. I resent my parents for letting me quit ballet at age five. As if I could discern what I wanted at that age!

In a moment of ill-advised self-confidence, I registered for the class. I’ve always been told I’m a good dancer, but, let’s be honest – being able to shake one’s disproportionately large rear end does not a ballerina make. I figured it didn’t matter – at least we’d all be in the same beginners’ boat and look like fools together, right?

Wrong.

I started off badly – my ballet shoes didn’t arrive in time for the first class. Perf. I love being unprepared. Additionally, as soon as I arrived to class and sat down on the floor, I knew I was in for a complete gongshow. As we introduced ourselves, it became clear to me that I was one of the only non-dancers in the group. Some of these bitches had tutus. Literally, there were beezies in that class that were like, “Oh yahhh I danced for twelve years and then I took some time off and now I’m bored so I figured I’d come here and brush up.” HELLO. THIS. IS. BALLET. ONE. UNO. UN. EINS. THIS IS NOT BALLET I’M PRACTICALLY A PROFESSIONAL EDITION.

I should have quit then. I really should have. In that one moment, I could have switched out to scuba diving and changed the course of my life, but because I’m a stubborn asshat, I stayed in Ballet I.

The first thing I learned in ballet is that I have terrible turnout. This came as no surprise to me for several reasons: I’m knock-kneed, I have hip problems, and I hadn’t set foot in a dance studio in nearly fifteen years. My teacher kept insisting that I turn out “from the hips.” I’m sure dancers know what that means. I didn’t.

The second thing I learned in ballet is that my arms look like frozen sausages when I raise them above my head and try to be graceful. I don’t know what to do with them. I don’t know where they go. They’re stiff and weird and awful. I can’t make my fingers beautiful either, but I can make them look like claws glued on to frozen sausages.

The third thing I learned in ballet is that I can’t keep dance routines in my head for any period of time. For example – if you show me four counts of a dance, and then move on to another four counts, especially if there’s turning and jumping, I’ve already forgotten the first four counts.

I could go on about how I’m not an ambi-turner, how I never could figure out how tight my pants were supposed to be to see the lines of the movements (not that anyone wanted to see my lines), and how whenever we did leaps, I most closely resembled an obese elk trying to jump over a stream, but I’ll let you visit the rest of my ballet experience in your mind’s eye.

Suffice to say, I got my worst grade of college in BALLET. FREAKING BALLET FOR BEGINNERS. I couldn’t even pull myself out of the hole with my eloquently written ballet journal, which was filled mostly with entries like, “Today I finally figured out how to achieve turnout of more than an inch,” and “Tomorrow I will work on figuring out how to spell all of these dumb French words.”

I sort of pushed these insane-o thoughts to the side, and then on the train home, some four hours later and post-Zumba, I spotted a really adorable dog. Like, SO ADORBS. And he was wearing a totally cute harness and had such droopy eyes. So, naturally, I started tearing up. At which point I realized I had lost my damn mind, because, really, who cries over cute dogs on the train? I’m one of the least sensitive people I know, and there I was, crying over a doggie just because I liked him.

As anyone who’s ever been stressed ever can tell you, it obviously wasn’t about the damn dog. It was about the residual stress that I had been feeling from that afternoon. It was about the stress I felt on Monday when things didn’t go as I wanted them to in court. Because I have a strict, “if you have to cry, go outside” rule, in the style of Kelly Cutrone, I never cry at the office. And crying in court? Hello? I’d sooner crab walk through house of correction. Twice. I’ve perfected a pretty legit poker face (trust me, it’s the only thing I’ve perfected about being an attorney) which is useful when you’re standing up in court and something goes awry and you feel like someone just hit you directly in the face with 2×4 and then stepped on your pinky toe for good measure. The problem with the calmcoolcollectedI’mreallylevelheaded expression is that if you do it enough times, you end up crying over doggies on the T.

I think it’s really weird, actually, that if we don’t deal with stress properly, we end up blowing our tops at some random event at some random time in the future. The problem is (and others can weigh in) that when you work in a stressful field, and you train yourself not to react to the stress on a daily basis, sometimes, you can’t even TELL when you’re worked up about something, and then you never end up dealing with it properly at the time. Then one morning you can’t find the jacket you want to wear and you start sobbing like a crazy person and by then you’re so far removed from the stressful incident that you have no idea why you’re crying about a jacket.

Well, okay, on that note? I just lost a police report while sitting at my desk. I haven’t moved. It literally just disappeared. Now I have to find it. And return to listening to Hanson. Good day to you.

Moving on – yesterday, pre-yoga, I was at my gym, and I realized I needed a towel. Not to be gross or off-topic, but I recently came to the conclusion that I sweat a LOT in yoga. I feel like everyone else looks like peaceful perfection in their leggings and Lululemon gear even after infinity sun salutations, whereas I’m dripping perspiration on my mat and trying not to flash the guy behind me because my pants keep falling down.

Needless to say, I needed a damn towel.

So I strolled into the locker room, where towels abound on shelves atop the lockers. I reached my hand up, and could barely tickle the top of the locker with my fingers, never mind grab a towel. I started jumping up and down, slamming my body into the lockers which either misguided attempt, but I still couldn’t pull one down. Finally, I had to turn to the girl behind me and say, “Uhm, I’m sorry, this is really embarrassing, but I’m too short to reach a towel. CAN YOU HALP ME???”

And she did. And then I had a towel. But this rather mundane incident drove home for me what I’ve suspected for a long while – those of us who are vertically challenged are living in a big people’s world.

I’m not the shortest one of my friends, by far. I’m 5’3. Some of my friends aren’t even five feet, for crying out loud. I’m not THAT short. The average height for American women is 5’4. I know that because I looked it up on Wikipedia, and so it must be true.

I think my whole problem with this is that through high school in college, I never found myself to be particularly short. I mean, no one is all that tall in high school, and I went to an all-women’s college. I lived in a short-centric world. Then I moved to Boston after college, and was surrounded by tall dudes. Tall dudes who ride the T aggressively. Being small on the T has its advantages – I can wedge myself into corners that other-sized beings avoid. Being small on the T also has some serious downfalls. I’d rather not be wedged underneath a tall dude’s sweaty armpit, and I can’t reach the black straps you’re supposed to hold onto if the poles are taken, so I have to stand on my tiptoes to grab one and then I wobble around like a Weeble because I have terrible balance and terrible knees and I basically end up just pitching into people left and right and more or less hanging from the ceiling of the train.

And all this because I’m short.

You know who else is tall? Male law students. And attorneys. And DEFENDANTS. My defendants are always epically tall and I look like a mini-person standing next to them.

Most insulting, perhaps, is that The Boyfriend is a cool six feet. This translates into the following: there are many things in my apartment that I can’t reach. Linens? No dice. Travel mugs? Not a chance. The problem with this is twofold. Firstly, I can’t get things down when I need them, and if I do manage to jump up and grab something, I end up pulling half the shelf down with me. Secondly, if I try to put something back on the high shelf, it ends up wrinkled, stuffed in a ball, or something else ends up broken. Like this morning? I almost killed myself with a flying coffee mug, which I knocked down trying to put wine glasses away. This is what I’ve been reduced to on account of my height – death by flying coffee mug.

It’s a tall world out there, little guys. Be strong and let’s go buy some step stools together.

As I started to mention the other day, before I was so welcomely derailed by Human Centipede, I’ve been struggling a lot lately with my “blog identity.” I used to think that a) the idea of a “blog identity” is a complete crock and b) seeing as I’m no longer twelve and listening to Creed while crying and writing in my journal with a purple glitter pen nightly, I must be done with identity crises in general. Unforch, even I can’t elude this curse of the twenty-something blogger, and so for the past several days, I’ve been doing some blog-reflecting.

FYI – This may actually be the lamest thing I’ve ever written. That includes my college essay about making mix tapes, and the poem I wrote about Romeo and Juliet when I was ten, ending with the immortal lines “And she scarified her life/with a knife.” Yes, I misspelled sacrifice. Yes, I got it published in some weird magazine anyway. Yes, I am aware that “scarified” is actually a word, but it’s definitely not what I meant.

Anywhoodle, I have no idea what this blog is about. Like, REALLY no idea. As much as I love writing recaps (and don’t think I’ll ever stop), I’m loath to let my whole blog be consumed by them. I mean, there was a time in my life when I wanted to be an actual honest-to-goodness writer who composed meaningful prose Even KCav wouldn’t want me to devote this whole space discussing her escapades. Just, you know, like 3/4 of it. And I can live with that.

I think my problem is that I’m too all over the place. I have too many ideas, too many things I want to say, and so many things I can’t say because of my career/work/school/whatever. It’s an odd and awkward balance to strike. I’m not as focused a writer as I used to be. There was a time in college when I was churning out work that impresses me to this day – I’m honestly not sure where that part of me went. Not that the type of writing I was doing back then is necessarily suited to this blog, but still – my creativity was astounding, and now I just feel kind of flat and blah and not really all the funny or original.

Regardless, I’m excited to see the advent of a new year of blogging. I promised myself that as a reward for maintaining this blog for a year, I would buy myself a domain name. Ergo, unless I drop dead doing the Bollywood numbers in Zumba next week, you can expect the launch of http://ohhayitskk.com the first week in August. Maybe I’ll even figure out how to get a theme that’s not so insanely generic it makes my eyes sting. I’m also recommitting myself to blogging five days a week. A terrifying thought, but NECESSARY.

In other news, happy Friday, watch out for German doctors who love conjoined twins, and please leave a comment regarding your thoughts on whether Usher is the ultimate male butterface. Kthanksbye.

8:44: OurGerman scientist friend sits in his car and looks at pictures of dogs attached in centipede fashion. Seriously, what the cluck are they doing in Germany these days?

8:46: Before German scientist shoots a truck driver he spies on the road, we learn that this is only the FIRST SEQUENCE of the Human Centipede…sequence. Oh swell. I’m thrilled.

8:47: In a hostel that looks disturbingly like every other hostel in Europe, two braless American ladies plan to go clubbing and be braless for the indefinite future. This movie may actually feature the worst acting in recent history, but I can’t really talk because if I were to be offered a spot in a film called Human Centipede, I would take it immediately, no questions asked. And I can’t act my way out of a paper bag.

8:50: This movie is actually Dutch, though the doctor is German. Sorry Germany. Kind of. But DUTCH PEOPLE, PLZ EXPLAIN.

8:51: Lesson number one -Learn Dutch before going to a Dutch-speaking country and getting a flat tire and running into a Dutch sex offender who makes lewd tongue gestures at you.

8:53: Lesson number two – Do not leave your car in the middle of the road and wander into the Dutch woods with nothing but your wits, heels, and a dying flashlight. This movie is like a freaking Aesop’s fable of international travel.

8:55: Eccentric German scientists tend to have extremely quaint, ranch-style homes. Kind of like Florida, but in the Netherlands and with the potential of being a part of a human centipede.

8:56: I’m dying to know what the casting call for this movie was like.

8:57: Lesson number three – Be inherently suspicious of anyone who has a portrait of conjoined twins on their wall.

9:00: Lesson number three and a half- Be inherently suspicious of anyone who says, “I don’t like human beings.”

9:02: At least the doctor is up front in letting these girls know that he’s roofied them. Also, he is impressively able to put one of them in a sleeper hold using only his legs, and then sedate her. I appreciate his honesty and physical prowess.

9:04: I also appreciate that he eats a large breakfast of what appears to be canned peaches. Canned peaches and no conscious? Seems like my type of fella.

9:06: But my real question is – who gets to be the FRONT of the human centipede?

9:07: Not the trucker we captured earlier, apparently. He “doesn’t match.” Much like the decor in my apartment.

9:08: We’ve got a new guy – slightly smaller. The doctor drives a really nice car. How does one make money creating human centipedes?

9:10: The doctor is suiting up. I’m palpably nervous about this. It’s not every day you get to watch a human centipede emerge from its cocoon. Also, this doctor used to separate conjoined twins. It only makes sense that he would want to conjoin separate humans then…right?

9:12: I don’t understand the science of this procedure. Except I think I heard the word “anus,” which vaguely makes me want to vomit. I would volunteer to be on the front of this thing if I were one of these people. I think it’s kind of nice that at least he gave them a slideshow presentation about human centipedes prior to the procedure. Everyone deserves to know what they’re getting into.

9:15: The brave one of the girls, who I assume is supposed to be the heroine, bites off her restraints and attempts to flee. On a scale of one to successful, I give her about a negative two, mostly due to an unexpected fall into centipede doctor’s indoor pool, which, by the by, is actually rather nice. There are also some very interesting frescoes on the wall.

9:21: I now give the girl’s escape attempt a negative three, because her bravery has earned her the distinct honor of being the middle of the human centipede.

9:23: Okay, okay – so the girl actually did manage to elude the centipede doctor briefly, and now is attempting to release the other potential centipede participants, when she kicks a metal pan accidentally and thus, loudly announces her whereabouts to the doctor. This beezy puts the ‘b’ in “subtle.”

9:26: Lesson number four: Always watch out for blow darts.

9:30: What’s the recovery time like on human centipede surgery?

9:31: I have to say, having a human centipede just seems kind of unwieldy. Where would you keep it?

9:33: The lead guy seems really upset but…if I were him I’d be actually thrilled. I mean, Being in a human centipede sucks, but if you’re in one at all, you want to be the lead guy, right?

9:34: Answer to earlier question – you keep your human centipede in a cage. I guess I could have answered that one myself.

9:36: Your human centipede can bring you the paper. What a delight. Maybe I’m just old-fashioned, but couldn’t you just have like…a dog do that for you? Or perhaps you yourself could pick up the paper?

9:38: Lesson number five- Beware of biting human centipedes.

9:40: Oh man. I’ll just spare you guys this part, but suffice to say I almost threw up in my mouth.

9:41: On a lighter note, much like babies and dogs, human centipedes can keep you up at night with their whining.

9:42: I’m not ashamed to admit that I just hit the button on my TV remote accidentally and was relieved to find that I have only half an hour left in this movie.

9:42: Oh. A nude scene of the doctor swimming? Well – that was unexpected.

9:45: Oh my gosh. It appears one of the human centipede uhm…persons has an infection and may or may not be dying. I’m rather…well…a great diet would be watching this movie before dining, daily. I actually just shrieked aloud by myself in my apartment.

9:47: On further reflection, I guess infection really isn’t all that surprising. I mean, a human centipede can’t be very sanitary, can it?

9:48: By the way – the police are finally catching on to the human centipede situation and decide to visit the doctor at his house. Odds are they’ll end up roofied and part of the centipede too.

9:51: Only one of them was smart enough not to drink roofied water.

9:52: The middle girl on this human centipede has really great eyebrows. I wonder where she gets them done.

9:53: Lead guy looks like he has an idea!

9:55: His idea appears to be that they should cut themselves apart as some sort of DIY project. Best idea or BESTEST idea?

9:55: He made not even need to do it – doctor drops a hypodermic needle in front of the cops. This plot is impeccably constructed and totally unpredictable. The cops decide they should go and get a warrant to search the rest of the domicile.

9:56: Well color me surprised – the doctor goes down to check on the human centipede and discovers it’s escaped.

9:57: Shortly, we realize that the human centipede plan was actually to stab the doctor on the knee with a knife and then have the lead guy gnaw on his neck. This is all good and well until they realize they have to get up the stairs without the doctor’s help. While attached. The logistics of this are about what they would seem, and again, I would be really happy to be the lead guy in this situation.

10:00: The doctor, however, isn’t quite done for, and crawls up the stairs after them, while…licking the blood on the floor. You know, I have a lot of unusual habits but none of them quite this unusual.

10:02: The doctor manages to follow them into his bedroom and then it’s a doctor v. human centipede FACE-OFF. At which point, the lead guy on the human centipede gets weirdly emo and starts talking about what a depraved and awful life he’s led. And then proceeds to kill himself by stabbing himself in the neck with a piece of glass. Interesting choice, and kind of selfish, if you ask me.

10:05: The cops return, this time with a warrant. Finally, the one who’s been roofied starts to act like he’s been roofied. I’m glad to know that roofies take affect only when it’s convenient for the roofie-giver, and/or the plot of a fine cinematic feature such as this one.

10:10: One of the cops discovers the doctor’s underground lab, while the roofied cop….gets shot. The non-roofied cop then discovers the human centipede, and subsequently the doctor and the dead roofied cop. And then the doctor shoots him. So basically, everyone is dead, and the human centipede is still 2/3 alive. That seems like kind of an issue.

10:11: Uh…now they’re only 1/3 alive. This middle girl really needs to rethink her life.

10:12: I just spent $6.99 on ninety minutes of my life I can never get back.