Steak Cooking Instructions Inspire Fierce Dick Measuring

I wonder if the article of this Sploid article detailing how to cook a steak had any sense of what they were about to inflict on the world. Surely they had, as everyone who's ever written something that will be read by people in the internet has had, a vague sense of foreboding. Because it's a weird rule of humanity that if something is on the internet, and that thing has an option to comment on it, you can guarantee some assholes are going to show up and voice increasingly horrific things about and directly to each other. Regardless of your content.

Some places are better than others, and each site's comments section has its own particular flavor of bleak nihilistic horror. And as a Gawker site, Sploid is no stranger to the usuals: racism, homophobia, whiny "WHAT ABOUT MY FEELINGS" tumblrina types, people who have no stake in any of it but have decided to feel offended on behalf of some person or group who's not actually present, etc. 

But even knowing all that and despite my jaded indifference to life at large and most of the shit I find on the internet, I was downright impressed at the amount of anonymous e-peen measuring going on in a article about cooking a fucking steak. I guess it's sort of relevant, so the gist of the article is: salt and pepper it, sous vide it (aka boil it in a bag), then sear the outside.

You can agree or not that this would make a good streak. I don't give a shit either way, to be honest. But these people do:


Scott Weiland

"Core" by Stone Temple Pilots was the first CD I ever owned. My religious aunt bought it for me not realizing exactly what she had just done, which is kind of weird considering back then she was slightly reactionary with the religious shit and the cover of that album does not look like anything you'd confuse for a bible songbook:



Podcasts are the New American Novel: 20 Great Podcast Ideas

Holy shit have you heard about podcasts? Don't feel bad, I only just learned myself. But they're fucking awesome! Basically you just talk into a microphone about some shit for like an hour and everyone listens on their phone and you make a million dollars! You've gotta get in on this gravy train! 

I realize you might not be a comedy genius like me, so here are 20 Great Podcast Ideas you are totally free to use as themes when creating your next podcast!


Inspirational Quotes for a Moderate Fee

These days no one can get through the soul-crushing monotony of life without a little help. That's why I'm getting in the inspirational quote business. Feel free to print these up and send me $50 for each one you use.

  • Fate whispers to the warrior, "You cannot withstand the storm," and the warrior whispers back, "Who in the fuck just said that?" because fate is invisible.
  • A good attitude will take you further than a good resume, I mean unless you've got a really kick-ass resume. Like, if you've got some top ad agency listed, people will probably put up with your shit.
  • Do or do not; I don't care either way. Stop asking me.
  • When you look back and see one set of footprints in the sand, check the water because Jesus could be attacking by sea.
  • The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be touched, at least not by a shlub like you.
  • Nothing is impossible, but for all intents and purposes lots of shit is impossible.
  • What you do today can improve all your tomorrows, or really fuck up someone else's tomorrows.
  • Aim for the moon. Seriously Fuck that fucking moon. Smug piece of shit.
  • The secret to getting ahead is getting started with an overwhelming advantage in wealth and privilege.
  • A good name will shine forever, or hopefully at least until you're dead. Did you know Gandhi was a child molester and Mother Theresa was a nihilistic sadist?
  • Happiness depends upon ourselves and our ability to find someone to do weird sex stuff with.


Diary of Descent: September



September 1
Made contact. I saw them making their way out onto the roof. The guy had a knife-no way that would fend off the sea of corpses around them. I figured I knew what their next step was. I didn't think, didn't really have time to think, so I fired a shot into the air.

Their heads snapped my way, but so did every glistening, pus-riddled socket within two miles. I waved and tried to yell for them to wait, but everything was drowned out by the ringing in my ears and the unearthly howl of a thousand monsters in unison wanting their dinner.

September 2
Door is snapping. I can barely hear it over the thunder. I've packed all the furniture I can move in front of front and back doors. Only one window is accessible from the ground and it's already boarded. I hope it holds. I hope they don't start climbing over each other out there or they'll be coming in through the windows or maybe even the second floor.

I've tried yelling across the way to the people across the way, but we can't hear anything over the constant roar of the dead. They're on the roof now, and unable to go back inside the house they occupied because the windows gave out and let corpses stream in. Wish I could save them from a night outside in the lightning and rain, but it probably feels alright compared to the alternative.

September 2

I must've fallen asleep at the window, but I woke to hear the girl screaming. It was pitch black, but in the flashes of lightning I could make out multiple shapes on the roof. Some corpses must've found their way out the attic window. I sat paralyzed for what seemed like minutes, watching them struggle to clammer around the roof, avoiding death. Then I ran downstairs.

The curtains and bedsheets went up in flames much faster than I thought they would, but luckily I'd already prepared my bag and the meager possessions I have left on earth. I ran back upstairs, to the West side of the house, while the sudden light and sound from the fire consuming the living room attracted more dead.

The entire first floor was surrounded, but I had noticed a tree close enough to the roofline that I thought I could make the jump. Even loaded with what felt like a 50-pound pack, I figured the fear of being eaten alive was probably the best motivation I could hope for.

I threw myself into the night air and slammed into the branch with my chest, feebly wrapping my arms over the top of it and scrambling to try and lock in my grip. The rain worked against me, but it didn't need to--the branch broke from the force of the impact and I swung out into space, eyes skyward and not daring to scream, as I plummeted to the ground. For once fate or luck or whatever was on my side, a peel of thunder masked the sound of the impact. My pack broke most of the fall, but probably one of my ribs, too.

For a split second I just lied there. The rain on my face was bracing, and the sky was a beautiful cacophonous cross-hatch of lightning. My mind was at peace, and I waited for the inevitable clutching hands and biting jaws. Instead I was greeted with Buddy's whine and his tongue licking my face franticaly. I rolled over and started to move, slowly and painfully. The house was fully alight now, and despite the fact that many of them were burning to death it didn't stop the dead from lurching towards the light and sound.

The field was leveled in terms of sight and sound, so I kept to the flickering shadows cast by the fire and began making my way out of the neighborhood. In my daze, I'd forgotten about the family. I heard the screams and turned to see the woman locked in a fight with one of the monsters, tumbling off the roof. The crowd around them screamed in delight and swarmed her, hiding her from view. 

The last thing I remember was the man yelling for me to help them.

September 10
I've gotten really good at fishing.

There's a stream here. I think it feeds into a larger river eventually. After a couple days of desperately hunting for any sort of habitat that might have canned goods, I managed to cut off some paracord from my backpack and fashion a hook from one of the zipper pulls. Took awhile to get the hang of setting such a shitty hook, but this stream has a lot of fish and the dead things don't seem to notice. 

I'm curently in the forest South of the base; if I had to guess I'm probably five miles from the house I burned. After the fire the majority of the creeps seem to have dissipated. Maybe something else caught their attention. The forest is sickeningly quiet now. Not much is alive to make noise. 

The rain has let up, but it's getting cooler. I don't want to spend another winter outdoors. I need shelter and I need resources. I'm going to have to try and visit the airfield again.

September 13

I've got to find batteries.

Even if I never used them, being able to turn on a light when I'm moving at night to escape those things would help even the playing field. They hone in on noise quickly.

September 16
Had a visitor today. Buddy tipped me off with his growling. This poor son of a bitch was in a military dress uniform. It was almost entirely black with ancient blood and gore caked into the very fiber. The top of his uniform - and most of him - was in tatters from dozens of bullet holes. His eyes were long since rotted out, but he still swept his head from side to side, listening or smelling or whatever to try and find me.

It was a pain in the ass trying to sneak up on him. He locked in on any sound I made and would turn pretty quickly. Luckily he couldn't see shit so I was able to slip up close and put a knife in the back of his neck and hit the brainstem. 

If all the other parts rot off after long enough, why not the brain? Shouldn't they all be dead by now?

September 20
There is something else out here.

I've been scouring the less inhabited parts of the base for any kind of supplies and cursing my disregard for math classes in school. What I'd give for an engineer right about now. Looking back it's hard to know if I'm being extra paranoid or if I've been seeing signs for awhile now. 

I've noticed bodies, which is nothing new, but these have taken especially heavy damage. I figured at first it was just due to the time gone by and maybe heavier weapons from the military. But the things I'm seeing aren't like bullet holes or explosions. They look more like animal attacks.

And I would've thought they could be animal attacks, or scavenging, but I don't know of any animal around here that does this kind of damage.

September 22
Woke up to Buddy barking up a storm into the dark. He's not usually so worked up around the dead. 

Looks like no sleep for me.

September 24
I've been casing the area around the base for weapons, and I'd finally ventured past the fences to poke around. I guess I should've expected the place to be huge and lacking in distinct "THIS WAY TO GUNS" signs. I've been marking off rooms and buildings I've visited with an X made from whatever's handy: rocks, clothes, or whatever I can find.

Today I doubled back to make sure I'd checked a closet to find my drywall and rock X disturbed. On a hunch I checked another; it had been tossed all around.

September 26
Here comes the rain again. Hopefully I get a few more dry days before it sets in for the rest of fall and winter.

September 28
I saw whatever is snooping around. It's not an animal. It's not any animal I know of, anyway. It was as tall as me at its shoulder. 
Could be a bear, based on the size, but it didn't look like it had any fur. 

It didn't look like has any skin at all.

Flickr photo alone by Alex used under a Creative Commons License.


Thanks for Leaving That in my Brain

I overheard this conversation:

"I had to wear a neckbrace once, it was as hilarious as you'd expect."

"Oh my god what happened?"

"I had the whole thing, you know? The neck brace thing? It was hilarious. I looked ridiculous."

"Oh my god that's hilarious! How did you hurt your neck?"

"Oh it's a really boring story."

"Wow that is hilarious."

Now I'm sitting here wondering what part of that was supposed to actually be hilarious.


Badvertising: Titties and Cinnamon

I love cereal. I love it so much that I basically can't keep it in the house any more, otherwise I'll eat an entire box in a day. I love cereal so much I'll even wolf down bullshit like Rice Krispies or Wheaties, so don't even get me started on sugary crack like Cinnamon Toast Crunch. It's like candy in a bowl.

But I think this latest ad is actually a concerted effort to get people to not like Cinnamon Toast Crunch any more:


Holy shit Donald Trump said a thing I agree with

I know, I know. It's been so long since I bothered to write anything and now I'm jumping in with (shudder) Trump. But everyone's talking about the GOP shit show debate, so why not? 


Seriously FB Ads?

Only $8.93! Complete a wardrobe for the burgeoning Batman villain in your life today!


I Seriously Just Had this Actual Conversation

"You coming to this meeting?"

"I have a different meeting on the phone."

"Oh. Anything I can do to help?"

"With a phone call? Nah I'm good."

"Okay well if you decide you need something, I'll be in the conference room in that other meeting."

"Yeah. Got it."

"Just keep your head up and your stick on the ice."

"It's a phone call."

"Well let me know if you need any help."



Hey Now: You are No Longer an All Star

Henry Rollins does a bit (yes, I was the disillusioned white 20-year-old guy buying Henry Rollins' spoken word CDs--shut up) about how for him, hell would be doing his famous "Liar" song, Vegas-lounge-act-style, into his 50s, 60s, etc. 

I've got to imagine that option seems preferable to the dude from Smashmouth right about now.

Side note: in college my pal Ryan did some video project and I was in it. After he presented it to his class he told me several people commented that I looked like the singer from Smashmouth. 

It threw me into a deep depression so dark that just remembering that story and writing it down made me sad again.


Mental Break In

Imagine yourself in the following situation: it's late. So late it's actually early. You're sound asleep under the warm, snuggly covers. You're in the middle of one of those sleepy roll overs where you're awake for like a half second as you get into an even more snuggly and comfortable position. All you hear is the soft breathing of your spouse next to you.


What was that? You snap to alertness for a split second before you chuckle to yourself. Nothing. Of course it was nothing! Probably some electronic device or the furnace or whatever cycling on or off. You glance at the clock: 4:25am. Perfect. You can probably snag another complete REM cycle before it's time to wake up. You close your eyes and begin to drift off.

And then you hear shit in your bathroom falling off the shelf and clattering around on the floor. 


My Address May Say "Seattle..."

But my neighborhood blog never fails to remind me we're straight up 'burbs around here.


Since what?

I don't mean to judge your lifestyle, Chef John, but I'm gonna pass on the...uh, balls.


Enrich Your Life with Mutton Bustin'

I had no idea this exists, but I guess America is a rich tapestry of people from a melting pot of cultures and so mathematically it was just a matter of time before I learned that a segment of the population enjoys strapping their children to sheep and watching them hang on for dear life.

At least those kids have some safety equipment. Half the kids in this video look like they're wearing bicycle helmets they brought from home:

"I think the kids are having fun. They look like they're having fun. There's been a few criers, but it's fun." - Mom of the Year.

God bless America.


10 Easy Steps to Have the Worst Day Ever*

  1. Spend the entire night before wide awake.
    • Not just awake, but frantically trying to fall asleep in desperation. Be sure to get so furious at your inability to sleep that you rile yourself up even more. Then take a sleeping pill at 4 am so you can completely fuck your morning up.
  2. Get stuck in traffic.
    • Not the usual traffic, either. Make sure there are no fewer than two road construction crews, one lane-closing accident, and of course you'll need two psychotic assholes at different intervals to cut you off with no turn signal and immediately stop in your lane. Your normal 25 minute commute should clock in at right around 92 minutes.
  3. Bitch about it on Twitter.
    • This is critical, because while you're walking absent-mindedly and staring at your phone, you'll spill your coffee all over your sleeve.
  4. Forget your computer.
    • You know the one thing you need to take to work to be able to, like, work? Yeah. Leave that at home. But, and this is key: don't remember it until you get to your desk.
  5. Tell your boss.
    • But instead of saying decisively, "I'm going to work from home," or "I'm taking the day off so I don't murder you all in a blind rage," leave it vague enough that your boss can say, "See you soon."
  6. Get your hopes up.
    • So that when your boss says, "You know what I would do?" you can immediately begin fantasizing about going home and falling asleep in your bed and forgetting this whole disaster ever started. That way it cuts extra deep when he tells you, "Just roll down your windows, crank some tunes, and enjoy the ride," like some kind of low-rent Big Lebowski wannabe asshole.
  7. Get stuck in the same fucking traffic, going the other way now.
    • This is where you really lose all faith in humanity and the universe at large. Oh and a cunt in a Miata will cut you off here too. Gotta keep you on your toes!
  8. Get home and grab your computer.
    • This is where you cry softly to yourself for having such a shitty day while simultaneously hating yourself for letting such trivial bullshit bother you so much. THERE IS NO RIGHT WAY TO DO ANYTHING AND YOU ARE THE WORST AT ALL OF IT.
  9. Sit silently on the couch, staring at the floor for like 20 minutes.
    • Tell yourself you're waiting for traffic to die down while knowing all the while that you're actually debating whether to quit your job rather than face the highway again.
  10. Go back to work.
    • Nothing really cements the futility and hopelessness of human existence like having to go to work after all that bullshit.

*Not, like, an actual worst day ever where someone dies or you find out you have cancer or something. "Worst" as in the kind of day you bitch about on facebook or your shitty blog.


I Owe You All an Apology

Ladies and gentlemen, assorted members of the press, thank you all so much for coming. I must admit, I did not expect my press release to garner so much attention, but I suppose part of the reason we’re all here is that I have repeatedly underestimated the media’s attention to my affairs.

Right. Let me cut straight to the point then. I would like to apologize to everyone: my family, my friends, my fellow competitors, and the public at large. The simple truth is I misled you all when I said that I was the winner of the 1978 Wild Willy’s Wing Ding Wing Eating Contest.

I did in fact attend the contest, and was one of the competitors. However I misremembered my performance day. I did not actually win by eating 47 “Kamikaze Suicide Spicy” wings in under three minutes. The actual contest rules, as noted on the sauce-stained napkin acquired by CBS, state that participants were to consume seven (7) of the afore-mentioned wings in under two minutes.

Further, when the left-leaning magazine Wing World Weekly questioned some points of my story, I reacted poorly. I should not, in retrospect, have called them "cum-guzzling shit goblins hellbent on ruining all that is good on this earth." They were just doing their jobs, and for that I apologize. It is only through diligent reporting and fact checking like that exhibited by Wing World Weekly that the citizens of this great country can hold their politicians and celebrities accountable.

So let me just state for the record that I was not at the 1978 Wild Willy's Wing Ding Contest. It seems I misremembered that when I was correcting my previous misremembrance just 70 seconds ago. It has recently come to my attention that I was not even born yet, and thus could not have attended in any capacity. I regret the error, and appreciate several people on Twitter correcting me. Most notably @TitsMagoo, @BaronVonStretch and @CNN.

I do really enjoy eating hot wings, though, and hope that we can move past this youthful indiscretion and enjoy some together.

I apologize, I was misremembering my enjoyment of wings. It has come to my attention that I have been a vegetarian for 17 years and in fact once renounced chicken wings as "the most shamefully cruel snack food of all." This was do to a misrememberance on my part that the chickens lived after their wings were harvested.

The important thing is that we've addressed this horrific scandal before it blew out of proportion, and now we can move on to other topics, like my duplicity in pushing America into any number of unwanted, fruitless, and criminal wars in the last 30 years.


Now You Can Eat Russell Wilson's Balls

I know, I know: FINALLY. We've all waited for this day since that dreamy 5'10 touchdown machine breezed into Seattle with his squeaky clean Jesus shtick and the most annoying insurance commercials since the GEICO cavemen. 

Side note: who is the sadder individual, the person who said the Lowe's robot assistant was his new best friend, or the person furiously typing questions to the "Ask Russell" app to get canned responses like some weird insurance shilling version of Cleverbot?

The '90s Were a Weird TIme


Go Go P-...holy shit.

Did you watch Power Rangers as a kid? I did. It was one of those shows that I'd watch even though it wasn't all that great, just to prolong the Saturday morning sugar rush.

And now Power Rangers grew up.


Props to This Social Media Manager

"You can fuck in our elevators" must've been a tough pitch to sell to the folks at Thompson Hotels.


Rejected Titles for Your Autobiography

After an extensive round of focus group testing, we've narrowed it down to this list for you to pick from:

  1. Whole Lotta Blood
  2. 33 Years a White Guy
  3. My Only Notable Achievement is Having Read all the Dune Books, Even the Shitty Ones Frank Hebert's Kid Wrote
  4. Not Enough Meat in the Meat Locker
  5. Just Keep Spraying Axe Deodorant and Everything Will Work Out
  6. You Can Be Addicted to Anything if You Try
  7. Lice! Lice! Lice!
  8. ...And the Spots Never Did Wash Out
  9. I Don't Think You Understand Just How Much Ass I'm Willing to Eat
  10. One Woman's 57-year Quest to Oversexualise The Flintstones


Cathy CK

Unnecessary confession: I used to read the Cathy comic strip religiously. 

Not because I liked it, or even understood it really. It started out of necessity, as I would voraciously read every single comic strip in the morning paper while I shoveled cereal into my face before school, and since it was technically reading my parents would rarely tell me to stop.


Eczema is no Laughing Matter

I write and perform sketch comedy for a group called Princess. We play small, sweaty shows under hot lights in tiny black boxes around Seattle and it's seriously the most fun thing in the world. Goofing around with my pals and making people laugh is a huge reason I'm able to put up with the other bullshit in my life like having to hold down a job to pay for giant inflatable cheeseburger props.

Princess had a gig the other night playing a quick 10 minute set with some other sketch groups who are pals of ours. It was a rainy night (IN SEATTLE?!) but a surprising number of people braved the weather to come sit in the basement of a bar and laugh at us. The audience voted us their favorite (although I suspect one of Glen's pals may have influenced the voting a bit) and everyone had a great time. 

Well, almost everyone.


Advice to Young People

I was asked to write down some advice to give to young people. The motif was something about "new year, new beginnings," and not a graduation speech where you'd sort of assume this sort of thing would go over. I sort of blew it off until the editor called me and screamed at me that it's February now and the article is worthless.

"Joke's on you," I laughed into the phone, "I already cashed the check!" But he pointed out that they had not in fact sent a check. Eventually I pieced together that I had agreed to write the whole thing for exposure, and that I had accidentally cashed one of those transfer checks your credit card company sends you and was now $30,000 in debt to Discover.

It is in that spirt that I now share with you my wisdom for the young people of 2015, be they graduates or not:


I Met God and It Wasn't All That Great

I met God the other day. I’m not trying to brag or anything, but it happened. I was waiting for the bus and all of a sudden I was somewhere else. Somewhere white. It was like one of those really fancy car commercials where the car is just sitting there in a white room, and you can’t even see the walls or anything it just goes forever. I was in one of those car commercial rooms. And then I saw God.

He didn’t look like I expected God to look, but he told me he gets that a lot. He also said it’s weird, since he doesn’t really have a corporeal form and the mind just projects what it wants him to be and that’s what we see. So for some reason my brain had a really different image of what it expected God to look like than what I always thought God would look like. I’m still trying to wrap my brain around that.

Anyway, I looked up from my phone and God was there. Just standing there, like it was no big deal. He didn’t say anything at first, which was weird. And so naturally I'm all, "Oh shit am I dead?" And he just sort of looked down and rubbed his eyes and then I was like, "Oh, sorry about the cursing, man."

I was really worried that was gonna blow my chance at Heaven, like I would fumble it at the goal line or something, but then I started thinking about it and I was pretty sure that if I had made it this far despite the way I'd lived my life, saying "shit" to God wasn't gonna kill the deal. But he was all about the power play, you know? That whole "whoever speaks first, loses," crap they teach you at crappy sales jobs? He probably came up with that. He just stood there, staring at me, for like 10 minutes. And at first I was trying to play along, like no way he's gonna beat me, but then I remembered I had already talked when I asked him if I was dead and plus he's God so it's not like I'm gonna intimidate the guy into making a mistake. Also: why would I try to make God make a mistake?

So I was like, "Is there something you needed?"

And he was like, "Yes, William, I hath a divine prophecy and I shall entrust you with its delivery to your fellow man." Which was pretty heavy. I started wondering how I would even deliver a prophecy. But then it hit me.

"Oh, my name isn't William." I could see him scrunch up his eyebrows.

"Well, you go by Bill then, but it you were named William," his voice boomed.

"No. My name's Kevin." And he just stood there, staring at me, like he was waiting for me to remember that my name isn't actually Kevin, that my name is William, but I didn't, because my name's not William. It's Kevin.

"Oh. Sorry about that," he said softly, and then he sort of disappeared. Just as quickly as he'd appeared. I was back at the bus stop. The 320 was already pulling away and I missed it.

I was late for work.


You can make a little money if you're willing to do some horrible things

When the headline popped up in my email, I did a double take:

You can earn $13,000 a year selling your poop

Surely this is some kind of scam, I thought as I excitedly clicked the link. But I could use an extra $13,000! Who couldn't?! 

And if I can get that $13k by selling something I'm literally flushing away every day, sometimes six or seven times a day (I eat a lot of red meat), then I'd be a fool not to! But first I had to verify that my turds would not be used for nefarious purposes or sinister gain. If a couple of sexual deviants want to rub doo doo on each other in order to reach climax, fine. But I don't want it being dropped from a drone onto someone in a far off country. I mean, not unless I get to push the button. Actually now that I think about it, I might pay $13,000 to drop my shit on someone from a drone.

But it turns out it's not nefarious at all. It's a place called OpenBiome and they want to take your poop and shove it up other people's butts. Actually, that sounds pretty fucking nefarious. That's like Human Centipede-level creepiness. Suddenly I had forgotten all about that 1998 Camry I was gonna buy and now I was terrified to leave my house on the off chance some psycho in a stained lab coat would tackle me and forcibly inject a stranger's shit into my butt. THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WITH A REPUBLICAN-CONTROLLED CONGRESS.

I guess they use it to help people who have lost their gut flora due to illness or antibiotics or whatever, but I kind of like the idea of people being pinned to the sidewalk and having a cake froster shoved in their rectum to delivery a poop slurry. At least they have a helpful chart:

"Be out in a minute honey, I'm saving lives in here!"


Call me an old softie...

But I'm still a sucker for a grand romantic gesture.

This is like pure, triple-distilled desperation. Guys, this isn't some kind of noble gesture. This is weird, predatory grossness. 

 I believe every girl deserves a second chance and I want to be the guy who gives it to you.

Honestly I feel like if you're the kind of person to write this, you're beyond any explanation as to why it's so fucking terrible. But the whole "kindness of strangers" thing should extend to smiling politely or maybe holding the door for the person behind you. "I'll capitalize on what may be a severe low point in your life and hope you're desperate enough to give me a chance" is not a kindness. It's fucking creepy.

Props to the guy for that 30-60 day expiration date though. Wouldn't want to come off as too needy.


We're Living in the Future

I dish out more than my fair share of snark and sarcasm and bitter resentment towards anyone I judge to be more successful than me, but sometimes you just have to appreciate the world we live in. For instance, a blind guy can see now:

If that doesn't melt whatever cold dead thing sits in place of your heart, I don't know what will!

(and yes I'm jealous because I'm trying to figure out an analogous experience to seeing for the first time in 20 years and coming up blank)