My head is full of stuff. FULL. Of old phone numbers and measurements and names of people who don’t remember me and strange things that appear in the night. I’m going to continue to empty it here with the hope that I will clear some space and be able to write about super important things soon. Like the environment. And Chatroulette.
Over or under. I’ve had this debate with my mom my entire life. Growing up, if the toilet paper didn’t roll towards the wall and under itself, I was in hot toilet water. And now there’s been a big poll about the positioning of the paper (here). 72% voted for ‘Over.’ And I have to say…. really? Did we as a country just vote on how we like our toilet paper? I guess we did. I was going to comment on how unimportant that is but then I realized I’ve recently searched for before and after pictures of Heidi Montag. So, ya, carry on then.
Neurosis I’m neurotic. Get over it. If you’re my friend, you are not allowed to sit on my bed with your street clothes on. You just aren’t. And you sure as hell are not using my towels or make-up brushes or kitchen sponges. It started in 3rd grade. The Flintstones. Wondering why Wilma didn’t just file for divorce (I thought divorce was all the rage back then). Then I’d see Fred pitter patter his car to the drive-in with that big hunk of dinosaur ribs just dangling off the side. And I would think, “NO! Fred! You’re disgusting. Wrap that meat in Saran wrap. Or a freezer bag. Please!” And then it would fall to the ground. And, even though it was the same every show, I would hope that this time Fred would stop the filming, get up, and wash it off.
Deleting numbers I can’t seem to delete numbers from my phone. Juuuuust in case. Like Javier, with whom I made out on my 24th birthday at Crobar in NY. What if I need to find a kisser in an emergency? Maybe I’m on a game show and they say, ‘Locate a Javier in New York who might want to kiss you.’ So I don’t delete it. Or the woman from New Year’s Eve 2006 who would not leave us alone. We hated her. But juuuust in the case I might need to find an older Indian woman who talks too much, I keep her number. Or maybe I just keep these numbers so that scrolling through my phone is like scrolling through memories. Does anyone else do this?
Coconuts I really love coconuts.
Adult acne I’m nearing thirty. It’s cool. But it’s so not cool. I made myself believe that I was happy to have reached this mature point in my life, at which I no longer get wasted or steal ketchups from McDonald’s. But what the hell is this? I have more acne than the entire graduating class of the Immaculate Conception Junior High. My doctor has said it’s hormonal and will last til at least 35. Great. Hilarious. As if dating wasn’t hard enough. Fuck. I know you see it. I can see it by just looking down. So stop saying it’s not that bad. It’s bad. I might even grow a beard to disguise it because that would look better.
Malibu Chicken I feel cheated. Deflated. Hurt. I spent many childhood nights devouring Malibu Chicken at Sizzler. It was a fried chicken breast topped with ham and then Swiss cheese. I’ve been to Malibu several times now. Nobody there eats fried chicken breasts topped with ham and then Swiss cheese.
My walls are thin. I’ve never met my neighbor. But we hear each other’s farts. I also hear it every time her phone rings to the tune of Alicia Keys. I also hear her talking when she has sleepovers. She has many. I was thinking about how lucky she is to have me as a neighbor because I never make noise nor have people over. And then I was thinking how lame I am because I never make noise nor have people over. Either way, I’m the real winner. I just heard her recite her credit card number (it’s midnight. I’m thinking HSN) into the phone. Wrote it down. I am buying this.
Designing Women. Now that was a show.
Oops I again went to yoga in threadbare black pants with no underwear underneath. This time it was ok though, since I was aware. Awareness is the first step.
