I don’t have the attention span for real writing today. But that’s okay. The hot trend on all the popular websites right now seems to be lists anyway, so let’s try one of those. If you’ve ever wondered how I came to call myself The Nut, well, this is by no means an exhaustive list, but it’s a start…
13 Reasons That I would Be Considered “Eccentric” If I Had More Money
1. I’m not a germophobe, but I will still obsessively re-clean things that other people have already cleaned because I’m convinced they didn’t do a thorough enough job.
2. No really, I’m not a germophobe. I’m the kind of person that finds old M&Ms under the couch cushions and just shrugs and eats them even though I can’t remember the last time I actually bought M&Ms, in fact I’m not actually sure I have bought M&Ms since we got our new couch which means this is someone else’s old M&Ms in which case THEIR LOSS.
3. I have rules for eating certain types of candy. I am not joking, and no, I don’t know how I came up with them. All I know is if I’m sitting at home and I crack open a bag of Skittles, there is procedure to be followed. First I segregate everything by colour, because apparently I’m a candy racist. But wait! Then I figure out which colour has the fewest candy pieces, and I eat the excess candies of all the other colours until they all have the same amount. See? EQUALITY, motherfuckers.
I may then commence eating one from each colour in ROYGBIV order until they are all gone. Often I will line the candies up in a rainbow first to facilitate this, but that step is optional.
Yeah, I know. Believe me, I know.
4. I hate math, but I love numbers. Well, certain numbers. I wouldn’t call myself superstitious, it’s just that certain numbers are obviously better than others. Nutty Hubby likes the number 7. 7’s okay, but 3 is clearly superior. 9 is great too because it’s 3×3. And 27, oh, be still my beating heart. I hate my birth month because April is a 4 and 4s are awful. Prime numbers are definitely better than all the other numbers. Even numbers are inherently inferior to odd numbers, but squares and other powers of even numbers are acceptable. Basically, if you are ever out with me and there is a number anywhere, just know that I am analyzing it as we speak.
5. I remember numbers better than names. I will forget your first name .037 seconds after I meet you, but tell me your phone number, your high school locker combination or your credit card number and I will remember them forever. Also, if you’re giving me your credit card number, be doll and rattle off the expiry and security code too. Girlfriend needs a new pair of dancin’ shoes.
6. As someone who graduated with a degree in linguistics, I know prescriptive grammar is wrong, but deep down I still have the soul of a grammar Nazi. And I don’t care what your updated dictionary says, “LITERALLY” WILL NEVER MEAN “FIGURATIVELY”.
7. I am an anagramming, word puzzle solving, letter pattern seeking machine. Most of my friends won’t play Scrabble with me anymore. Ditto with Upwords. Also I once solved a Wheel of Fortune puzzle BEFORE THERE WERE ANY LETTERS ON THE BOARD and I half expected Satan to rise out of the floor and announce, “Congratulations, you passed the test. You’re my new deputy. Now come along, we have work to do.”
8. I treat every license plate as an acronym and I spend my commutes coming up with the best phrases for the ones around me to fit their attached cars and drivers. Personalized plates are cheating. Unless your personalized plate is insanely witty (like the adorable orange and white Smart car I saw which was dubbed CRMSCL) or business-related, do you really need one? Is it that important that everyone knows that DAVE is driving that Honda Civic? “You know who was in front of me on the way to work today? DAVE14!” “Oh my god, really? I thought DAVE14 lost his license after he caused that four car pileup last June.” “No, no, the pileup was DAVE4. Haha, could you imagine? No, DAVE14’s a total saint, always waves when I let him into my lane.”
9. There is always music in my head. Always. Sometimes it’s a whole song, sometimes it’s just one line on repeat because I can’t remember the rest of the lyrics, and sometimes it’s my brain composing absolutely stunning symphonies that I will never be able to write down because I suck at music notation on paper and I can’t always get to a piano to record what my brain is coming up with. Nut Radio is on the air 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, and there are no commercial breaks. If I ever snap someday and commit a crime so heinous it lands me in solitary confinement, at least I know I’ll have DJ Brain to while away the hours with me.
10. Speaking of incessant sounds, you have no idea how glad I was to find out that misophonia is an actual thing, because for the longest time I thought I was just a heinous intolerant bitch for getting so inexplicably angry about other people chewing loudly or habitually clicking pens. And I get seriously angry. I’ve had to get up and leave rooms before over it. But I like that it has a name, it’ll make my trial sound more interesting when the wrong person pops gum in my ear at the wrong time and DJ Brain and I earn our one-way ticket to solitary.
11. I do not like the thought of anything happening to my fingers. Or anyone’s fingers. I had an irrational hatred of Sam Neill for years after I saw The Piano because of the scene where he cuts Ada’s finger off.
It’s weird, because I’m not squeamish about anything else. I have dislocated three of my limbs and popped them back into place myself, assuring onlookers, “I’m okay, I’m okay…” I used to watch Operation on TLC (back when the L actually stood for “Learning”) and my mom would come in the room and get grossed out and I would be like, “Mooooom, grow up, they’re putting this guy’s knee back together and it’s SO. COOL.”
But all bets are off when you fuck with my hands. One time when I was working as a cashier, I whacked my hand on the metal bag dispenser hard enough that this huge swollen bruise started forming on the top of my middle finger. It looked like someone had injected a bubble of blue ink under my skin. Immediately, my entire body went ice cold. I tried to stay calm. I kept serving customers. But my vision started to darken, and kept darkening, until I could barely make out basic shapes. I became aware of a ringing in my ears, and all external sounds were gradually drowned out by a roaring like a tidal wave inside my head. I’d never fainted before, but I could tell that a blackout was imminent. I held it together long enough to ask the current customer to excuse me for a moment, and then I bolted for the service desk. The cashier on duty was kind enough to go cover my till while I collapsed on a stool and waited for my heart to stop doing hummingbird impressions.
So that’s the story of how I almost fainted over a stupid bruise the size of a goddamn pea. And now I need to find time in my schedule to go wrestle a bear or something and prove I’m not a complete and total wuss.
12. Do you know that I used to have trouble reaching word limits on school papers? Okay, you can stop laughing now. Seriously. Okay, yeah, it is kinda funny. But for some reason I am still under the delusion that writing more than 200 words is hard despite the fact that nearly every post on this blog ends up ten times longer than I think it will be. I honestly didn’t intend to write this much today, but apparently I can’t even do a simple list post without ending up with a thousand and a half words on the page.
13. Titty sprinkles. Okay, so that doesn’t really have anything to do with this list, but I was getting off track anyway and I just felt it needed to be said. Because reasons.
Enjoy your weekend, everybody.