There are precisely two things I remember vividly about elementary school French class.
1) The only foods we deemed worthy of mention under any circumstances were the ones that had funny names.
2) Someone always needed to be named Bob.
So since gas is expensive to the power of hella and I’m still at least one decimal place in my salary away from being able to afford to buy a Tesla, I do the occasional online survey to earn fuel reward points, because a 10¢ off per litre is currently higher on my priority list than my dignity.
The surveys are usually pretty innocuous if occasionally somewhat time-consuming, and just between you and me, trying to figure out how the hell I would rate the overall personality and trustworthiness of a particular brand of dish soap is a great way to look like I’m concentrating on something super important when I’m actually just bored out of my skull in the office.
I have a Snapchat account for precisely two reasons:
- To receive entertaining photos and videos from a dear friend in Japan chronicling all the weird and wonderful things she sees and does there.
- To filter the everloving shit out of my face.
So an astute observer will have noticed by now that I kind of suck at posting lately. And by lately I mean the last four months.
So I’ve been catching the occasional Olympic event here and there, and all I can say is if I’m ever in Rio, I’m avoiding their pools like the plague…which they probably also contain.
Something has kicked my insomnia into tryhard mode. I can’t pinpoint the exact culprit(s) for 100% certain, but if and when I do, they will die a slow and horrible death.
YES PLEASE DO FEAR THE REAPER
Today is the summer solstice. The longest goddamn day of the year.
Maybe I’d be more inclined to enjoy that if I were lying in the sun on a pristine beach somewhere with a mai tai in one hand and a piña colada in the other – and two or three or ten more on the way, ideally served to me by Robert Downey Jr. – but I’m not. I’m stuck in a dreary grey office with dreary grey clouds outside the window and it’s Monday and therefore everything is terrible.
So fuck summer. Let’s have Christmas instead.
When I was fifteen and suffocating in the depths of suicidal depression, my parents took me to see a psychiatrist. He was a balding, unattractive man in his fifties, and he insisted on beginning every sentence with my name as if I had somehow forgotten it upon stepping into his office.
I feel it necessary to inform you all that I just nearly sprained my neck in my haste to go back and reread a Facebook comment that I was 99% positive said, “I have your boobs.”
Well well. This day just got a couple of cup sizes more interesting, now didn’t it?
Me being me, by the halfway point of my double-take I was already doing what I do best: logic-ing up my own explanation for what could possibly have been meant by the statement without any regard whatsoever for context or common sense.
Four little words, so many potential interpretations. See if you can spot the correct one below.
(a) Commenter is holding the OP’s boobs for ransom but lacked any magazines or newspapers with which to construct a proper non-social-media ransom note, because really who has magazines or newspapers lying around the house these days when you can just access them all online?
(b) Commenter borrowed the OP’s boobs for the weekend and wants to return them but OP hasn’t been answering her texts, so commenter resorted to contacting her publicly on Facebook instead.
(c) Commenter is OP’s daughter. She’s always thought her mom had an awesome rack, is super stoked that genetics favored her with a matching set, and figured it was high time she let the world know it.
(d) OP was announcing an author Q&A and what the commenter actually said was, “I have your books,” and I’m just an idiot.
If you were around for my A to Z Challenge post where I mentioned my habit of cutting corners when I read and the hilariously baffling literary misunderstandings that ensue, then you’ll know the correct answer is (d).
You’d also think I’d be wise to my own shenanigans by now and jump to the conclusion of (d) myself in the first place, but you there you would be wrong.
So very wrong.
1. A person held to resemble the so-called walking dead. – Merriam-Webster1
2. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD WHY WON’T YOU DIE? – The Nut