Random Rants After Realizing I Was Wearing A Jacket That My Cat Had Pissed On
Last night I was sitting at my desk when I reached to grab something off the printer. My car keys, perched casually on the top, slipped and fell behind behind it.
Instead of reaching behind the printer, which I could do without even rising from my seat since my printer sits within a comfortable arm's reach, I grabbed an index card that was within that exact same perimeter, spent thirty seconds searching for a pen, and after finally locating one, scribbled:
KEYS ARE BEHIND THE PRINTER.
Then I stood up and went to bed.
I call this: Broth Brain.
Whenever my cat does something she ought not to do, such as leap into my mini trash can, spilling all its contents to the floor, I pick her up, toss her across the room, and say, "NO!"
As soon as she lands, she starts licking her crotch. There is no pause in between these actions, no thought process involved. It's as if she landed in that position, the My-Tongue-Is-On-My-Goody-Bits-Position. She never fails to do this, and she only does it when I am trying to punish her.
I think this is her way of saying, "I was gonna come over here and lick my crotch, anyway, so - fuck you."
I've heard that some people are trying to push having pictures of lung cancer victims on packs of cigarettes. They think that photographing dying people and then marketing them will convince people that their addiction is actually just a delusion that stemmed from never having seen dead people.
This hasn't gotten passed, but if it ever does, I'm going to fight against it. No, I'm not going to insist that they remove the photos - that'll just give them hope that their method is morbid enough to work. Instead, I'll propose the idea of fairness and equality.
If you're going to put pictures of lung cancer victims on cigarette packs, then you must ALSO put pictures of fat people having heart attacks on every Little Debbie box.
You think a kid is gonna want a Zebra cake then?
I found my Kindergarten ID picture today. I'm wearing a shirt that looks like it's covered in eggs - sunny side up. I don't know what OshKosh B'gosh was thinking when they made this shirt (or when they named their store). You don't put a polka dot inside of another polka dot when you make a polka-dotted top, especially if those little polka dots are yellow and the bigger polka dots are white. You also don't scatter these mutated excuses of a pattern across a purple shirt with an orange collar.
You may think that sounds terrible, but it's better than the other outfits I remember my parents allowing me to wear. Torn jeans, a red bandanna tied across the top of my head - and not in the girly way but in the gangsta way, like a colorful do-rag - and a single clip-on gold hoop earring. For most of my Kindergarten career, I looked like a transsexual pirate.
Back in the fall, I never locked my door. It was warm, so I was in a better mood, which makes me more trustworthy that there are not any serial killers around.
My boyfriend and I are in bed doing something that called for a locked door, but like I said, killers were the last thing on my mind.
My bedroom door is also a front door, and it is a front door that comes before the Real Front Door. Yeah, I know. Who the fuck designed this house.
All of a sudden, my door swings open. I gasp, crab-walk backwards to the corner of my bed and pull a blanket over me. This was selfish, since there was only one blanket, but The Boyfriend is creative - I figured he could think of something.
A man walks in, stops, and stares at us. He's dressed in a baby blue button-down and khaki pants. He's a bro. But this is irrelevant.
A MAN WALKS IN, STOPS, AND STARES AT US.
Then he lifts up his hand and extends his arm, like a crossing guard telling traffic to stop.
"At ease," he says.
Then he briskly saunters to my other door, opens it, and nonchalantly waltzes into my living room, closing the door behind him.
SOME RANDOM MAN MAY OR MAY NOT HAVE SEEN MY CALVES.
Alright, so that's not that big of a deal.
SOME RANDOM MAN DEFINITELY SAW MY NUDIE-BOFFY.
Alright, so I guess that doesn't matter, either, since we both just started cracking up.
The point is - this guy didn't even bat an eyelash. He didn't apologize, he didn't look confused, and he didn't ask if maybe he had THE WRONG DOOR. It was as if he was accustomed to it, like he just walks in on bare-ass people all the time, like it was his calling, his duty, his booty.
I've locked my door from then on.