I don't know why I laughed at that...

I've been feeling this creeping guilt deep in my impressive ab-encrusted gut because I didn't keep true to my personal blogging promise to post at least once a week. How can I ever hope to built a two hundred-foot solid gold statue of myself riding a moose in the middle of Canada if I can't even write a stupid blog post at least once a week??


What a disgrace.


So anyway, my friend Annie told me some wonderful anti-jokes the other day, and I thought I'd share some of my favorites with you, since of course it is Fish Day in France.

***

Q: What's worse than finding a worm in your apple? 
A: The Holocaust.

...

Q: Why did the black man buy 3 boxes of condoms? 
A: Because he practices safe sex and they were on sale.

...

Horse walks into a bar. 
Bartender says, "Hey, buddy, why the long face?" 
Horse says, "My wife is dying of terminal cancer."

...

Knock Knock.
Who's there?
The police, your entire family died in a car accident.

...

Q: What did one lawyer say to the other lawyer?
A: We are both lawyers.

...

Q: How do you get a clown off of a swing?
A: You hit him with an ax.

***

I don't want to overwhelm you with too many tasteless attempts at humor in one post. There's about six too many here.


It was in the very least amusing to see the range of reactions these jokes get. My friends seem to appreciate them, seeing as we start to do that awkward silent laughing if one of these bad boys is delivered correctly in the right situation. 


My mom, on the other hand, just sort of doesn't say anything after I tell one...


But anyway. I digress. Go home. Yoke's on you.

That just fiddles my stick.

I have issues. Some of them are bordering on full-fledged OCD, I'm certain. Others are just plain annoying or weird. Ask my mother. She'll tell you. Ask my friends. They'll complain about it. However, most of these issues I am about to discuss have never seen the light of day prior to this post. Sketchy.


So, I apologize if your glorious image of me in all my godly goodness is very dear to you (as it should be). Because I'm probably about to shatter it. A lot. And smear some poop on it. 

Say bye bye now.

So, without further ado, I give you: 

MY ISSUES: VOLUME ONE.

1.

I hate it when I see an unattended, open drawer. HATE. I drives me insane. It feels like there are tiny squid and octopi sucking on my brain with their little suckers, and they won't stop poking and prodding my mind with their nasty tentacles until SOMEONE CLOSES THAT DRAWER. Usually I take it upon myself to complete this task.

It happens.

2.

I love shiny objects. Be it a faulty necklace that slipped off some neck or a wrapper from a granola bar, I must stop to stare at it for a moment. If it's the former, I take it. Finders keepers. The wrappers I stare at for longer, hoping it will mystically turn into something shiny but of more value. I stop and stare at it even though I am most definitely blocking up staircase traffic between classes.

How could I refuse THAT beauty?

3.

I really like milk. No one understands this but my father. I don't know why. Milk is like juice for your soul. 

4.

I have developed a deep, unconditional hatred for fairies. Maybe my upbringing is party to blame, as my mother loved to fill it with fairy dust and little winged girls clutching berries and flowers.

And there were mermaids. Lots of mermaids. Also, the redhead is a total ho-bag.

5.

Somehow, my hair manages to fall out and cover just about everything I own. I suppose this isn't really an issue, since I'm not really to blame. BUT IT'S GROSS.

6.

Everything has to be perfectly in line in my outfit or I nearly have a breakdown. Shirts not perfectly layered over each other? Jeans loosely hanging over ass and hips because no size fits just right? Hair not perfectly curled around neck and face? SWEET MOTHER OF GOD NOOOOOOOOOOOOO *pounds fists against desk, throws guitar out window*

7.

I am obsessed with locking doors. As soon as I enter the house after school, lock. Lock all other doors. After I let my mom in, lock. After I put the dog outside on his runner to pee, lock. When my mom leaves for a walk down the street, lock. When she runs outside to get something from the car, lock. YOU AIN'T GETTIN' IN THIS HOUSE, YOU SERIAl KILLIN' BITCHES!! WAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

8.

I hate tartar sauce. With a burning passion. If it was alive, I'd kill it all. For that matter, it very well may be sentient and out to destroy us all with its mysterious green and red specks in a suspicious white mess. You think I'm going to soil my seafood with THAT? What a useless, disgusting, putrescent and worthless condiment.

Hats off to you, sir.

9.

For all my claiming to not be superstitious, I am deathly afraid of the number thirteen. It scares the living piss out of me. 


10.
I walk really fast. I can't help it. I think it's overcompensation for the fact that my stride is incredibly short. My friends always get mad at me. They're like, "Shaannniii why are you walking so faaaaast???? Sloowwwwww down so I can catch my fat assssssss up to yoooouuuuu."


Not really though. My friends don't actually talk like that.

Whose stupid idea was this?

Whenever a strange, unfamiliar car or bicycle or pedestrian creeps up the driveway and my dog starts going nuts, I usually make the mistake of walking into the kitchen to unlock the front door, thinking it’s my mom getting home from work.  At this point, it is usually too late.  I have French doors, which are almost entirely made of glass.

I once informed my father of the seemingly obvious pointlessness of a glass door.  I was distressed by the safety issues attached to our fragile, breakable portal to the outside world: 

Me:  “But Dad, it would be so easy to break a glass door.  A murderer could come right in and kill us!”

My dad:  “Well at least you would see him coming.”

My parents say such reassuring things. 

Anyway, that point relates back to the point I just was distracted from:  it’s a bloody clear door.  So that random creepy FedEx man/charity collector/unwanted neighbor/religious person/police officer/murderer who happens up my driveway can see that I’m suspiciously watching them from my kitchen, and knows there’s someone home even after I flee upstairs.

You see, I am terribly socially awkward.  I don’t have any mental disabilities or anything like that... At least not that I know of... but I am not so good with conversation.  I don’t like talking on the phone.  I don’t even like calling my friends on the phone.  I’m deathly afraid of that awkward moment when you realize you don’t want to be on the phone any longer, and you’re both just like “Yup...yup...yup...okay bye.  Bye.  Bye.”  Or is that just me?  Am I the only person damned to phone-phobia? 

Can you imagine my paralyzing discomfort when facing a potential face-to-face interaction with an actual, in-the-flesh stranger who could possibly be out to rape me and my cats then sell us to slavery?  And all because my stupid door decided it wanted to be completely transparent.  I bet it thought it was real cool and all that.  “Oh, look at me in all my glory!  Just kidding, you can’t, because I’m totally composed of invisible glass.”

By the time I escape from my foreign trespassers by ducking behind my counter and crawling on hands and knees to my stairs to stay out of their line of vision, I am already feeling the shame of what I have just done.  I can feel the eyes burning critical holes through my house, and I know they know I’m in there, avoiding them.  I can feel the judgment seeping through the ventilation ducts, the floorboards, and the plumbing.  I know they’re standing out there, feeling rejected, all because I don’t know how to talk like a normal person.  I practically start hearing their thoughts:  

I see how it is.  Another douchebag who won’t donate to support breast cancer patients...

Well she looks suspicious.  I better add her to the suspect list...

So good of you to thank me for tirelessly delivering your useless packages every month.  Skank...

I love living next door to you!  Why won’t you love me?!

The burning embarrassment of the incident often almost drives me back downstairs to right my magnanimous wrong, but then I remember that they could all be axe murderers.  I figure that it’s just safer to wait for them to leave.  I keep clutching onto my trusty machete until I’m sure they’re not going to turn around and bust through the French doors because of their hatred of lazy delinquents like me and arrogant windows that pretend to be doors.

I should just probably hang a sign that says “Trespassers will be shot on sight” to avoid future mishaps.  Although... that seems a little too tame to get the job done.  I have very persistent neighbors. 

AHA!

"Trespassers will be ravaged, maimed, mutilated and sold into slavery along with their cats."

That'll hit 'em where it hurts. The old ladies of Leverett are tight with their cats.

Awkward First Post

Hello all!


So...um...that greeting sounded way too chipper for my usual boring self. I'm new to blogging, but I recently felt the unimaginable urge to start.  I have things to say, you know?  So, regardless of your desire to read these posts, I am going to write them. So, uh... As you can see, I have gone right ahead and foretold the awkwardness of this first post.  


You should also probably know that I am going to use the word "awkward" a lot, as there is no better word to describe me and my stupid actions.  I apologize in advance if you're one of those people who really hate it when others overuse the word "awkward"... but really, that's just too bad for you.  Sorry.


I know I am the ultimate underdog of blogging at this exact minute, with precisely one reader (myself), but I feel I must share my inner dilemmas and foolish memories or I am going to just start vomiting up dangerous radioactive energy from the extreme pressure of them bouncing around my small soul and stomach.  Yeah....I do believe it's that serious.   


But in any case, I will try to amuse my small, insignificant crowd (at this precise moment, myself) with my often arbitrary and incoherent ramblings about the good ol' days and the time my pet bullfrog ate a sparrow alive.  


So... buckle up?