Art of the Grind

Gaming has taught me a lot in life. Mostly that I have a strange fashion sense, a tendency to giggle at excesses of violence and a huge AWWWWW obsession with the cute, fluffy or bouncy critters that show up in most games.

But gaming has always also highlighted some of my talents, next to these quirks. Talents that, now that I get to put them in an adulting context – are proving to come in handy more and more.

Because gaming teaches you that it’s ok to step off the beaten path. Hell – aimlessly sidequesting for hours on end in games like Zelda, Fallout and Elder Scrolls is waaaay more enjoyable and satisfying than just playing through the main story in a couple of hours. There’s a LOT of fun to be had when you don’t just follow direction, but create your own path.

Similarly – games like those also teach you that there’s a thin thin thin line between right and wrong. And that being purely good is pretty much impossible.

Because even though you try to make all of the good choices. Even though you try to be kind, and just and honorable at every turn…you WILL see yourself accidentally bashing an innocent bystander…or ally or…even worse…your poor little horse. Man. I constantly find myself apologizing to McHorse in my Zelda game while beating up Bokoblins. (Yes, I named one of my horses McHorse).

But do you know what it is that gaming has MAINLY taught me?

You don’t always NEED talent to be succesful at something. Putting in effort. Hard work. And a LOT of hours WILL get you to the top in the end.

I suck at gaming. I do. My reflexes are shitty – my puzzle solving skills require a lot of revving and I tend to panic when I’m in fights that require me to do a lot of things at the same time. But in the world of gaming – and especially open world games and mmorpgs. That doesn’t fucking matter. I have other talents. Talents that get you far in the world. Whether it’s real or virtual.

When it comes to the art of the grind – THAT’S where I shine. Doing the same things, repetitively, for hours on end…that’s my secret talent. Finding pleasure in repetition, finding fun in doing the same things again and again, finding solace in building yourself up purely on hours of effort instead of skills – THAT’S my power.

Because you don’t have to be great at a game to kill the same monster 20.000 times to loot 20.000 hides to craft the perfect armor. You don’t have to be skilled to run the same route 50 times to find all the secret Koroks and upgrade yourself to the max. You don’t need to be good at a game to excell at it, as long as you work the mechanics to your strengths.

And…as it often goes – that’s much the same in life. It is why I reveled in my work as a regression tester. Running (and perfecting) the same set of tests every damn time to show something is still working as it was and should? Heavenly. While to most people that kind of repetitive, unexciting, boring work would spell certain doom…I loved it.

And that made me good at it. That made me stand out. That made me rise in the ranks real quick, even though I didn’t exactly have any technical knowledge, or supporting diploma’s. No powerful allies or wealthy family members paving the road. By putting in the work, and lots and lots of it – I built myself up.

Just like it takes a special someone to enjoy sitting on their ass for hours and hours, watching movies in a marathon. Or playing games for entire days. Watching sports from the early hours to the late nights or poring over book after book after book. But when you DO do things. Often. Prolongedly. Studiously. Continuously. No matter how you look at it: you get better at it. Hell. You get good at it. Fuck. You get great at it.

It takes a certain kind of person to do the exact same job all day every day. But there is such wisdom AND safety in it. You WILL improve and you WILL feel peace in knowing what’s to come. Aiming for the heavens with a rocket isn’t always doable. Grinding your way up the stairs one step at a time…is. When you put effort over talent and dedication over luck – eventually you’ll still find yourself where we all end up. The top.

Because if 10.000 hours makes you an expert at something – the art of the grind has made me a master.

Whole

I wither 
Like a flower without sun
Or a tree without water
When I live without your touch.

I crumble
Like a brittle sandcastle to the sea
Or a ruin of old
When I live without your strength.

I falter
Like a record that’s been scratched
Or a train without rails
When I live without your guidance.

I perish
Like a forest in a fire
Or a house in a storm
When I live without your love.

It is you that completes me.
It is you that makes me whole.
It is you that perfects me.
It is you that soothes my soul.

And to live life without you
Is to love life no more
Because even in this short while
Your love’s shook me to my core.

And I no longer wither or crumble
Won’t falter or perish
Can’t be less than all I can be
All for the simple fact
That I now have you…with me.

Hypocrite

‘I SO desperately need to lose weight!’

Above phrase has been a part of my life ever since my metabolism decided I was ‘big-boned’ (aka, not petitely built and using this as an excuse for excess).

And it doesn’t even matter if it’s exclaimed as a phrase to a boyfriend you want to be gorgeous for. A friend you want to rant to. Family members you want to complain to. Or random internet strangers you want confirmation from. It’s a surefire strategy for a lively discussion.

Hence – most of my life has been an on and off Rollercoaster (or yo-yo, if you will) of diets and binges and crashdiets to absolve the binges and binges to compensate for dieting and and all-round horrorfest of wanting-to-be-skinny without doing any of the work to-be-skinny for someone who isn’t built to be-skinny.

Curvy, the word of this era, expresses my general state of curvaceousness perfectly…yet I simultaneously pine to be the type of hip-protruding bony of the size 0 crowd regardless of the fact that even if I stop eating till I perish – that will never be me. People calling me curvy as a compliment need to wash their mouth with soap. That just instantly translates to fat.

Which…honestly….I am. In my eyes especially. In BMI terms officially. And in the realm of men and women of the world definitely. Except the people who like me and feel a need to reassure me enough to make me feel like not-a-mountain.

Fat, after all…is subjective. Weight….is relative. Build is indicative and all of these, in the grand scheme of things…don’t even fucking matter.

Yet, all I want is to be skinny like Miley Cyrus in Wrecking ball. While feeling as rambuctiously rebellious and good about my curves as Lizzo with her song Soulmate. And simultaneously eating all of the crap I love – without feeling guilty or doomed.

Because today I made white chocolate and marshmallow bananas (because I had some bananas that were dying) – which is a dish that totally mirrors this bodily hypocrisy. Being one thing while wanting to be another thing.

It looks as bad as it IS for your body – while tasting every bit of forbiddenly good that it can. Reaping destruction on your weight while feeling like heaven on your tongue. It is the perfect signpost for wanting to be healthy while refusing toeat healthy.

And with every bite you’re loving yourself for the creation while hating yourself for your lack of self-discipline. A fucking hypocrite in action. Speaking about that need to lose weight while omnomnomming the caloriebomb of doom.

Why is it that everything that’s good for us is so fucking awful. While everything we love is so damn bad for us?

The universe WANTS us to be hypocrites.

And fat.

Mostly fat.

Barbie-Perfection in Gross-land

Do any of you ever feel like they might be slightly more insane than the average person in some regards? Because boy, am I feeling like that right now. Again. I’m too lazy to check how many blogs I start in a similar fashion, but I’m betting it’s a lot. Todays topic? Sounds. Or more specific: yucky sounds!

A confession to start off with:
This topic bothers me SO SO much, that I’ve actually been on the fence on even writing about it for a while. For reals. Just the thought of writing about it already gets me al jittery frustrated icky nervous. Because it’s so unavoidably near and dear to my whole persona, apparently.

Because…
And I kid you not….
I am a classy lady.

Sure, I made myself giggle saying that, because in a lot of ways I am the FURTHEST thing from what could ever be considered classy – but when it comes to the ‘delicate’ ways of a lady – I am your gal. Thing is, I don’t even know how I got to be this way. But call it what you will: when it comes to the down and dirty of the human body, I despise it. Not implying things of a sexual nature, but the far more base activities like belching, or passing gass or other toilet-related points of business. In my mind – they ought not exist. Girls don’t do any of the above. Or at least, not where anyone might be confronted with such behavior.

Honestly – I had to type ‘passing gass’ up there. Because even typing the word ‘fart’ is making me cringe. The wordt itself is ALREADY unpleasant. Not ok. Gross. I realize I typed it just now, but I’m making a point alright?

There’s people who have a REALLY strong aversion to certain sounds. Like chewing. Misophonia, is what they call this hatred of sounds. It has an official name, so it’s obviously a thing. A label. And even though it’s probably not what this is (my uncomfortableness with human bodily functions) – it lives in the same realm I reckon. And in my perfect realm – these things would not exist. They would not be part of my world.

I dunno where this particular thing originated for me. But all I know is this:
I am fucking hella uptight when it comes to any and all of these things. Something which I hardly ever notice except for times like these where you’re in that shiny new period with a new lover and are discovering ways to co-exist as ‘normal’ human beings outside of the dating-fakery-perfection.

However, where most people will slowly transition into a more at-ease way of being around eachother after a certain amount of time….I don’t really do that. It doesn’t matter to me whether I’ve been with someone for 1 date, a few months or eight years (seriously, I had this happen) – it doesn’t change for me. Not saying that I’m not comfortable with people, not at all. But my body-control does not change with my level of comfort. Ever.

Burping, farting (god, I hate that word), picking or blowing noses or anything else involving toiletty sounds, or smells or substances – I try to avoid at all costs. Panickly so, even. Because obviously…there’s people who don’t give a rats ass and just exist in whatever way they see fit. I’m not writing this for anyone in particular, mind you. I’ve always been around folk like this, much to my amazement. Even from a young age, when I still lived with my family. Pigs. All of ‘em I tell you.

People who’ve been brought up to be comfortable enough around other people to urinate in public. Or leave the bathroom open for anyone to walk in. Or who dig out scabs and boogers and flakes of dandruff in full view of others. Who make fart-jokes accompanied by actual sound-effects. Who blow raspberries on their loving partners for shits and giggles.

And here I am in awe of that.

Me. Who can hide in a public toilet stall for an age, waiting for people to clear out so no one might hear any involuntary sounds.
Me. Who has learned to hold in any and all gassy escapees to insane amounts of bloating and belly-aches just so there’s no indecent sounds or smells for any one the people around her.
Me. Who hides behind a hand to use a tootpick. Who will leave the room to blow her nose. Who will ALWAYS always lock the toilet and bathroom doors, even when she’s alone in the house.
Me. Who is in horror of sleeping with other people, just for the mere fact that while unconscious all of the aforementioned gass can (and probably WILL) escape and embarass the crap out of her.
Me. Who shivers in horror at potential nosebleeds, or runny noses, or eyecrumbles or or or or.

Me. Who just wants to be Barbie-perfect instead of actually messily human.
An added disclaimer: I do not think any less of the people who DO do these things. I REALIZE they are perfectly normal and all of that. I just. I just hate all of it and don’t wanna be caught doing it. Or hear it being done, if I can avoid it.

BUT
Here’s the thing. And obviously I cannot say this for certain, because it might just be a figment of my hyperfocus and imagination: But sounds like these CARRY so much further than any others.

Seriously. I’ll sit on the couch, volume turned up high enough to afford whoever is on the toilet some privacy to do their business unaudited and STILL hear the sounds I DON’T WANNA BE REGISTERING AT ALL. I can be at the entire opposite end of a house and still hear someone toot three floors up and with all the doors inbetween closed, while doing the dishes over running water with the radio on. And no matter how many layers of clothing, blankets, pillows or whatever you try to muffle that inescapable moment with that sometimes is upon you…it’s going to sound like a damn strike of thunder in an empty cathedral. Which – lemme tell you – does NOT help in becoming more relaxed about such matters. Damnit.

WHY IS THAT.

Can’t we just be gross in peace. And unseen silence?
And when alone and only alone?

#wishful thinking

No offense

Today I am offended. I am.
Not at something that affects me personally, or that has any actual impact on the way I live my life or feel about myself – but because I take offense in the amount of offense people are taking in life right now. Cancel culture, if you will.

You see, my pet peeve about this whole thing – is that it makes. No. Sense. It doesn’t. Not to me, at least. I’ve been brought up my whole entire life knowing that sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me. Actively. It was knowledge shared with me from a young age. Imprinted into me all throughout my school life, and often underlined during my professional career.

So the fact that people these days manage to take so much offense at words, phrasings, song lyrics or internet rants on the virtual www is a complete mystery to me. And what boggles me even more is that, in our current age, they actually feel like their personal offense has power. Weighs in with the weight of the world. And grants them the human basic right to apparently have it changed. The offense of the few suddenly outweighs entire cultures, years of tradition, and about 99% of the rest of the world population. HOW?!

It’s insanity. A song for a yearly kids-event here is currently under fire for containing a word that in the SLANG of an ENTIRELY different language (Indonesian on Bali) than is spoken here – means sex. Yes. You are hearing me right. People are on the stands to ban a Dutch children’s song – for containing a word that on the COMPLETE OTHER SIDE OF THE WORLD…..means sex. LE GASP!

Ik ben hier en jij bent daar (I am here, and you are there)
De jiggyjig doen we met elkaar (the jiggyjig we do together)


And to make matters worse – there’s actual schools that yielded to this insanity – and proceeded to ban the song from their celebrations. Whut, the, flying, fuck.

I think people are managing to take things way too far without taking into consideration what they’re actually doing. They’re taking too much pleasure in the fact that they CAN, to really ponder whether they should, anymore. We’ve become such a self-important bunch in our world of luxury that we use up the little time we have to obsess about things that shouldn’t even play in our mind. Because we have…nothing…better….to….do.

We have evolved so far onto the scales of Maslows pyramid that we no longer have to worry about silly things like food, and water and surviving as much – and are now slathering ourselves in the self-righteous quest for self-actualization. Over the bodies of the world before us, if we have to, I suppose.

Can you imagine someone from the Middle Ages worrying about the fact that the words ‘dewy rose‘ in the song of a bard might refer to their cheating wives’ nether region, to then proceed to have that song banned?
No. They were too busy worrying about what food they’d find to put on the table for their 12 greasy kids and dealing with their teeth, hands and feet rotting off from various uncureable diseases to worry about such meaningless bullshit. Hell, If you told those people that we’re actually banning words these days they’d be like ‘What?! You can do that?!’ like the true paupers that they were. Instead of instantly trying to get the word pauper banned themselves for referring to their decrepit state as poor little mongrel.

It’s not a thing. It shouldn’t be a thing. And no matter the case that CAN obviously be made for some (now banned) words and aspects. And even with the validity of possibly some of the complaints being blatantly clear – the fact that they have opened doors for our current day cancel culture sickens me.

What’s even worse is that I even find myself obliging most of the time – because I’ve found it easier to comply than to engage in fruitless discussions with people that are in tunnels so deep that they only see the ass in front of them that they think they’re licking. Possibly hoping it’s their own, for increased pleasure. I mean – have you ever tried talking to one of these cancellers who is fully convinced of their own ‘right‘? I’ve had more meaningful conversations with walls, honestly. And more chance of budging those with reasonable arguments, as well, I think.

So when I call a housekeeper an ‘interieurverzorgster‘ or ‘domestic worker‘ even though what they’re doing IS in fact housekeeping, because the previous makes them sounds ‘cheap‘ and makes them feel like they’re of lower class? I feel offended. Or when someone mentions the janitor in our company building as ‘director of facilities management’ (they actually fucking do that) I cringe. And when someone in my vicinity suddenly becomes very outspoken on the importance of banning ‘Zwarte Piet‘ (From my vocabulary) or push for deleting kids-songs containing Urban Dictionary-worthy terms while listening to Cardi B songs in their free time – I unfriend those motherfuckers.

You WILL still find me dressed up as a cowboy or an indian during carnaval and I will still eat the over 200-years old European delicacy we Dutch call ‘negerzoenen‘ without jumping on the hype-wagon and just calling them ‘zoen‘. And the moment the company that produces ‘Jodenkoeken‘ actually yields to popular demand and rebrands these delicious cookies – I will learn how to bake them my damn self.

Because if words that have been in our language so long that they’ve lost all true offensive meaning (because the people that once meant them as offensive have died so long ago that their descendants don’t even realize they were meant as such anymore) are suddenly rebranded as offensive? I refuse.
To put it more in terms that will REALLY get ya’ll activists fired up: Check your privilige – you’ve not earned the hardship to even be offended by it. And the people that were – are long gone.
If concepts and traditions that have brought people together for centuries, regardless of their once horrendous-origin-now-completely-lost-to-history, suddenly need to pave the way for inclusive maniacery? I refuse.
If songs and poems and blogs and writings must be banned for their icky topics? I will make sure I start writing them – because conformity and peer pressure is what made all of these horrible things normal in the first place.

If we cancel everything – we’ll have to start taking offense at other things. And if they move on to body language and banish the eyeroll? I’ll be doomed.

Sorry if that offends you.
Wait. No. Not even slightly.

Luxury Problems

There’s a couple of things that I can’t ever live without anymore as a First Worlder, regardless of how insane that might sound to people who have it worse. When I say can’t I obviously mean ‘I really really really don’t want to‘ even though it definitely wouldn’t actually kill me, but you catch my drift.

It’s things like my dishwasher.

I will never go back to doing dishes by hand. Even though I have these slap-in-the-face-realisations that it’s horrendous to think like that while I live in a world where people have to do dishes by hand every day. Hell. In a world where people don’t even HAVE dishes. Hellll. In a world where people don’t HAVE dishes OR anything (like food) they could use them for.

Yet – I fucking hate doing dishes even in light of the terrible lives of others. So I still view it as a necessity to own a dishwasher. Insane but true.

I mean: we grow SO accustomed to our lucky lifestyles so fucking fast that losing grip on reality becomes an actual serious issue.

I could totally do without a dishwasher. But I don’t want to, or feel that I should. And I live in a world where that is seen as a normal need to have. No problem.

Same goes for my bathtub that lives next to my shower. I don’t wanna live bathless life ever again. While there’s people that haven’t bathed in months. Or at all. Or my Smart TV. While there’s people who only have the rats and roaches as entertainment. My five different perfumes in a world where there’s people living in the stench of a sewer.

And as much as I like to think that I feel enough happiness for the things I have. That I am grateful enough for the life I was granted just merely based on where I was born. That I am considerate enough for those who have it worse and that I’m kind enough to share the joys…I know that that can’t possibly be the case.

Because I don’t even know what I could be missing. I have no concept of how bad it could be. And I still find myself yelling at the dishwasher when a bowl comes out of it with a smudge. I live in a life of luxury problems and I fear that the worst of them is that I’m not even inclined to solve that.

I feel like my lack of guilt in that regard makes me a horrible person while simultaneously feeling very strongely about not having to/wanting to feel guilty about something I can’t solve or control. It’s an interesting duality, no?

I guess feeling bad about living a luxurious life is also a luxury problem. Damnit. Spoiled to the bone.

‘No’ goes a long way.

Work. Is. Crazy. This week. Well. This month. Well. This year so far.
Where normally I’d be working on one or two big bids simultaneously at most – I’m currently engaged in 5(!!) and it is taking a damn toll on my mental sanity, I feel like. Mostly because, when compared to ‘normal’…I’m doing the work of three people, all by my lonesome.

It’s moments like these…when the evening hours and weekends are no longer sacred moments of freedom, but extra opportunities for work – that I fear falling into a trap of ‘giving too much’ for too little reward. You see, the thing about working really really really hard is that people will generally treat it like it’s normal, unless you get some amazing rave results. So the more you work, the more you pile on, the more you do? The more people will start expecting you to pull that weight from there on out. There’s no winning. You never get the full appreciation for super-power-induced-performance. It’s shrugged off way too often.

I’ve often joked to people that I usually work at only 30% of my actual capabilities, because if I’d give a 100% people would get scared or lose their jobs for not meeting my insane standards. Now, that’s an overly dramatic statement (cause I’m an overly dramatic person), but at the core of it…it’s kinda true. Usually I do tone myself down, a lot.

I take on less work than I probably could, but not because I’m lazy or don’t wanna do more – but because I want to do all of the things I do to the best of my ability. And now I’m getting into a situation where I have SO much work – that I can still (very barely) manage to do it all, but it’s never more than ‘just finishing’ the work because it HAS to be done. There’s no shine on it. No polishing. No added eye for detail or pretty little garnishings. It’s the work. Period.

And when you’re in a field of professionals that ALL know how to do their job, and do it well – just barely scraping the barrel isn’t what you want to be doing. You NEED that bit of ‘extra’ to draw in the wins we so sorely want within the company. So even though I’m still managing – I’m not happy with the things I’m doing. Which is why, before I ACTUALLY overload, I’m already taking steps to make sure that I can put quality over quantity.

You see, there’s a choice that we all have when it comes to moments like these. I could stumble on. Shoulder the weight and hope I come out on the other end of the overflow without a burnout and a couple of wins to boot. OR I could have the harder conversation to scale down in some areas, so I can excel in others. And though I’m often a very conflict-avoiding type: it’s in moments like these that I do NOT shun tough calls. Which is why I’m both successful, and appreciated in my line of work, so far. I hope. Think. Wish.

But…
The point I’m really trying to make, at least at a professional level is this:
Do NOT be afraid to draw a line in the sand and make your limits visible. Do NOT be afraid to say no. No, even though it’s such a hard thing to say, WILL make you better in the long run. And where you WILL be forgiven for a no – you might not be so easily forgiven for a yes-that-failed. Have those hard conversations. Be clear about what you can and can’t do. CHOOSE quality over quantity. And your mental stability over high performance. Always. It pays off in the end.

Just saying.

Breaking news!

Do you know what the thing about life is? Like – the actual honest to god truth of it all? I’ll let you in on my little secret for a happy life:

Sometimes you just gotta break something to live it to the best of your abilities.

It doesn’t really matter whether it’s habits or promises. Chains or the law. Whether you’re breaking hearts or noses, the bank or the silence. Maybe you’ll find yourself breaking some rules or that fancy china your great great aunt from nanas side of the family gave you. You might see yourself breaking down doors or breaking through a glass ceiling. Or you might just break even or even down every once in a while.

Inescapably and inexplicably – some shards will always be required to pave your particular yellow brick road to break down the gates to paradise unknown.

But breaking doesn’t equal broken if you don’t let it. Breaking doesn’t always force you to pull the brakes. Breaking just offers up a new chance at respite, recognition or redemption. An opportunity to rise, to become better, to improve. A possibility for change, transformation or growth. A new way to break the mold and break free of expectations.

So if you want to find happiness for real? Break big decisions up in smaller chunks that are manageable to break off into easy wins. Break with tradition every once in a while and be sure to give yourself a break. Break out the bubbly and break ground on a new you!

Just be careful not to break wind while you’re at it…although…the big friendly giant said it first: better out than in!

Fearless – NOT!

We’re taking the Easter weekend as an excuse to binge all of the Jurassic movies that have appeared on Netflix.

(And increasing my Zelda chances from non-existent to not-instantly-dieing)

((And putting kittens in a blender))

(((NOT AN ACTUAL BLENDER! It’s a cardgame, don’t worry)))

But me…binging Jurassic Park? That’s surely something I’d never expected myself to say! Because for as long as I remember…Jurassic Park has been my nemesis in the field of scary movies.

I’ve always laughed my way through all of the Paranormal Activities. Giggled my way through the hilariously bad effects of things like The Nun and Saw and Chucky and pretty much anything else that’s supposed to give you nightmares. Ain’t nothing too scary for this chick (even though I dislike psychological thrillers and horror movies on the whole…I CAN watch them, no problem)

And sure. Jump scares really do make me jump. I won’t deny this. Especially when it’s in a dark scene in a dark room…cause I can’t see a damn thing in the dark (extra challenging when driving at night, lemme tell you, when the only thing you CAN see is the white road divides or taillights of the car in front of you). Or when there’s things involved that are being shoved under nails and the like, to give you the real life cringe for imagining the pains.

But gore? Blood? Parts splattering in different directions or limbs unpleasantly separated from others? Not a problem. I can do scary movies. Easy. Unless they were the first Jurassic Park movies. No way Jose. Up until this weekend, at least!

I dunno whether it was the childhood trauma of that first time I watched Jurassic Park. Literally through my fingers clamped over my eyes, held breath and tears streaming down my face because of those damn raptors living it up on an island. Or whether it was the excellently executed moments of suspense and BOOM RAPTOR IN YO FACE scares that are abundant in it. All I know is that I never made it through that movie without some tactically planned peebreaks or other distractions.

But yesterday…I managed. We watched Jurassic Park. And I really really watched!

Personal growth ya’ll. Just kidding. I still flinched at the kitchen scene and compound fight and and and. But I made it through.

I suppose having someone next to you that makes you feel really, genuinely safe makes all the difference. Perks of boyfriends, people. You can conquer Jurassic Park!

But I’ll still exit the room when they take out the bamboo shoots to shove under nails. Just saying. That’s not ok!

Happy Easter – muahahaha!

If I were an Easter Bunny, I’d be sure to paint some of the eggs a gruesome red, dripping with blood. Just to scare the naughty kids.

If I were an Easter Bunny, I’d hide some normal eggs between the chocolate, so that an innocent chomp turns into a mouthful of yolk.

If I were an Easter Bunny, I’d be sure to hide a chocolate egg deep under a bush behind a chocolate egg that is barely hidden in it. They’ll never expect a double find!

If I were an Easter Bunny, best bring a stepladder. Birds nests would totally be a legit hiding spot.

If I were an Easter Bunny, I’d leave all kinds of prints leading to all kinds of locations, where no eggs would be hidden. And hide the prints to where they were. Let chaos ensue.

If I were an Easter Bunny, I’d leave a banner with a basket of eggs. Saying ‘Hiding eggs is unpaid labor! Stop animal cruelty!’

If I were an Easter Bunny, I’d be sure to leave a couple of rabbit’s feet scattered across the yard. Actual. Rabbit. Feet. Feeling lucky now, punk?

If I were an Easter Bunny, I’d hide those eggs in the warmest spots I could possibly find. Not a fast searcher? Free puddle of chocolate, there ya go!

Oh man. I think it’s a really good good thing I’m not an Easter Bunny. I’d be an Easter Terror – like the killer rabbit in Monty Python