"Oh, how wonderful!" this imaginary customer exclaims. "There are true singers hidden in those khaki pants!"
Normal me, however, would be incredibly annoyed by this. I'd most likely be standing in line, hearing the check-out person try and prove their self-worth to Wal-Mart shoppers, and be thinking of the different ways I could murder them. (Yes, this includes both the clerk and the customers.)
But today. Today was a good day. As Name-Tag-Norah bellowed Katy Perry's "Fireworks," I laughed and seriously contemplated joining her. Then I remembered I have the singing voice of Bambi. It sounds sweet when I put it like that, but here's the reality of having vocal chords that resemble those of a deer:
It all started with a phone call. True, this phone call didn't come until 11am, which excludes the first five hours of my day, which included: a parking ticket, using the very last of my coffee grounds, numb toes, cat flatulence on my lap, running out of toilet paper, Mac and Cheese that turned out way too runny, and dirt stuck under my fingernails. However, after all of these routine occurrences, my phone rings.
"Hi, is this Natasha?"
"This is she."
"This is Thbfjkskjndsjf from Vjdfdnlfndsljnflds just calling to let you know that you got the role. Congratulations!"
This means that not only am I finally fucking employed, it also means that I am getting paid to do murder mystery dinner theatre. You hear that? I am getting paid to do IMPROV.
Then I get mail. Six hundred dollars from taxes. Back when I had a job. Do you even realize how many VHS tapes I could buy with 600 dollars?
These were the highlights, and because of this, I stayed in an incredible mood all day, which, by the way, means like I acted like a fucking weirdo for hours.
"HEY!" I screamed at someone dribbling a soccer ball down my street. I knew him. He looked up.
Then I realized I did not know him. At all. He stopped beside me. Then I turned. Kept walking. Maniacally laughing. Leaving him there. Confused.
Then I see someone I don't know. And they say hi. So I ignore them. Because just two minutes ago I was shouting at strangers with balls and I wasn't about to do it again. Then this person keeps saying hi.
And I realize I actually do know them.
Confession: I do have glasses. I just choose not to wear them.
Then I go to class. About an hour in to Survey of American Literature, my teacher asks,
"Did Jesus poop?"
There was a large debate for a few minutes on whether or not Jesus pinched turds out of his asshole, until my teacher asks,
"So if he did poop, then did he have to wipe?"
Then there was an even bigger discussion on whether or not JJ cleansed himself, or if he was just so holy that he left the shit there to gloriously take care of itself. Is there a hymn about this somewhere? I'd like to find it.
"He did poop," I said matter-of-factly. "Flowers. He pooped flowers. And rainbows."
Keep in mind, this is the first time I have ever spoken out loud in that class. It's because today was a good day. I wanted to break out in a hymn about this, too, but I figured that'd be pushing it.
Then I go to my next class, where we all sit in a circle and discuss Fiction.
"Nice bowling shoes, Natasha!" someone interjects.
"Thanks! I stole them."
"You stole them?"
"Yes. I went bowling and I felt they owed them to me."
"They owed them to you?" my teacher asked suspiciously.
"Yes," I answered. "I went bowling and ended up watching a burlesque show."
"And then you stole the bowling shoes."
"Yes. There were scantily clad women dancing on tables. I needed these shoes after that."
"I think you just found your next story."
I happen to have a whole list of stories, but I'm saving those gems for a bad day.