Thought #1
Many times in the past, my sister has informed me that my parents have given her money. After hearing such news, I usually nod and smile at her, waiting for my cue to exit so I can drop the shit-eating grin and make a phone call.
"Dad! Why did you just hand Katrina money?"
"Well, Natasha, she earned it."
"And I didn't earn it?"
"No."
"But! But...but I have a better British accent!"
I have used this one on multiple occasions, and guess what? Sometimes it works.
NO. NO IT DOESN'T. IT NEVER WORKS. PEOPLE DON'T APPRECIATE BRITISH ACCENTS LIKE THEY USED TO.
Thought #2
When I was in middle school, I thought deodorant went under the arms and on the inner thighs.
It doesn't.
Thought #3
I wanted to make a scarecrow last year and put it in my yard for Halloween. At the time, though, I was broke ---
Well, I'm still broke. But I was then, as well.
--- so I couldn't afford any of the materials I needed. I recently realized I should have just bought a blow up doll, put a straw hat on it, propped it on a stick, and placed it on my lawn. If anyone dared say it wasn't a scarecrow, I could just retaliate and say:
"It's a scareblow."
Thought #4
Alright, ladies, you know that moment when you're pulling up your sleeve, and your hand slips, and your arm snaps back from all the force you put into yanking up your sleeve, and you end up punching yourself in the boob?
Yeah. It sucks.
Especially in public.
Man. Really hoping I'm not the only one this happens to.
Also - it's leaf. And more than one leaf is leaves. Why is one sleeve not called a sleef? Is this too off-topic?
...boob punch.
Thought #5
I was flipping through my journal looking for new writing material I may have forgotten to mention in past posts. I came across only five words for September 17, 2012. These words were:
Watch out for your vagina.
I really want to lie right now and say something super suspenseful, like:
And it was in somebody else's handwriting!
But it wasn't. It was in my own. I also want to lie and say that it took me a few minutes to remember why I had written it , causing me to come up with wild assumptions such as:
Did something so horrible happen to my vagina on September 17th that my mind blocked it out permanently? Will I ever know what happened to my vagina on that ill-fated day? Has my vagina not always looked like it does now? What do other vaginas look like? Should I compare and contrast a few vaginas to make sure? How many vaginas exactly? Should I go ahead and google, "different types of vaginas?"
There was a lot of V-word action in that last paragraph and I apologize for that - but hey, we got through it together. Besides, you're not the one who has to worry about an unknowingly mangled vagina.
The truth is - I recalled exactly why I had written those words. It was the last time I went to a Thai restaurant.
I was with The Boyfriend, and as we stood up to leave, I rose a bit too forcefully and turned a tad too quickly. Unfortunately, I'm really not that much taller than your average chair, so the two things that jut out from the top on the sides of chairs ---
WHAT THE FUCK ARE THOSE CALLED.
--- happen to be the exact height of my crotch. We'll call those things the hard, wooden things. As I turned, I collided right into the closest hard wooden thing, and by "I collided" I mean "my vagina smacked right into it."
I clenched my cheeks a bit, no no no, not my butt cheeks, maybe those clenched, too, I guess...they probably might have, I mean, I don't see why not...LOOK IT DOESN'T MATTER. The cheeks on my face sucked in a little bit because I was stifling a grunt of pain, severe pain, maybe not the pain of testicles getting hit, but it still hurts to ram your veevee into a piece of furniture, okay? That's why penises aren't made of trees.
And luckily, I was successful. I did not yelp, I did not cringe, I simply paused for a bit while discreetly detaching my vajayjay from contact with the hard, wooden thing. (Seriously - not a penis joke. I really cannot think of anything else to call that piece on the chair. If it were a dick reference, I'd let you know, believe me.)
Regardless, I was proud that I had been so smooth about it. Wow, I even thought to myself, that was smooth. No one even saw m---
"Watch out for your vagina."
I turned and looked at my boyfriend, who was looking at me, and in the brief moment of silence we shared after I heard his comment, he subtly tilted his head downward, calmly motioning to my vagina, in case I had forgotten where it was.
"Did you just see that?"
"Yeah," he said casually, "Watch out for your vagina."
He didn't crack a sarcastic smile; instead, he pushed in his chair and walked to the cash register to pay. I think it was this reaction - or lack thereof - that caused me to react in the exact opposite way - and start bursting into laughter.
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" I could feel my face getting red. I joined him at the cash register, but every time I tried to hand my card to the cashier, I would start laughing again, and my arm would go weak and drop. I think I dropped my card four times before my boyfriend took it from me and gave it to the cashier, himself.
"Why you laughing?" the cashier asked me.
"Watch out..." I gasped in between breaths and snorts, "Watch out....for your....vagina!...HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
The cashier just looked at me, unlike my boyfriend, who immediately turned away and walked out the door, leaving me and my insanity alone with the complimentary mints.
Anyway, here's a picture for you:
NO. NOT OF MY INJURED VAGINA. Jesus, people.
Of my googly-eyed stapler! See? I told you it looked more human.
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