Dear fellow lactose intolerants:
Do not eat a sandwich that basically consists of two kinds of cheese and little else, and then follow it up with a big latte. Also, don’t chase those things with a glass of whiskey and then eat the brandied cherries floating in said whiskey. Just trust that this is a bad idea.
Sincerely,
Oh shit. Gotta go.
My parents are not rich, which means they can be sure we really love them and we’re not just putting in face time to ensure we get a big, juicy inheritance at the end of it all (and it will be the end of it all, because I really love my parents).
Anyway, the fact that I will not be collecting mad scrill (or is it scrilla? I’m new to this super cool lingo) is why I’m not bothered by Oxford’s rejection of the Oxford comma (ie: serial comma). I mean, in everyday writing it just kinda seems superfluous, doesn’t it? But if your name is in someone’s will, that Oxford comma could save your ass..ets, friend.
Think about it. What if the money is being split between you and your three siblings, but the will says it’s to be split in equal parts between Oliver, Sarah, Anna and Sam. Oliver and Sarah could argue that the money should be split three ways, with Anna and Sam being counted as one piece of the pie. Just one little Oxford comma splits the money four ways, so you don’t want to fuck around (unless you’re Oliver or Sarah, in which case you want to have a good blendable white-out to remove that comma).
Just sayin’.
What? Google+ won’t accept my invite. It’s like junior high all over again! Except that in junior high it was me who gave the invites and the two people I invited never came, so maybe this is just Google+’s way of trying to protect me from that happening again by rejecting my invite first. Maybe Google+ could just go back in time and protect me from the pain in the first place, and while you’re at it, Google, could you please stop my best friend and locker partner from throwing my binders and coat in the garbage can because that was her way of telling me she found cooler friends? Thanks.
I’ve been corrected on my last post. Apparently the unicorn was pissing rainbows in my mouth, which is an important distinction. Glad I could clear that up.
If you’ve seen Midnight in Paris, you know the dresses I’m referring to. If you haven’t seen Midnight in Paris, we can’t be friends until you have.
So I’m watching Midnight in Paris and I see Rachel McAdams wearing these lovely button-up shirt dresses with great belts in every scene, and I’m sad in that way a kid is sad when they see another kid playing with a killer toy they know they’ll never have - which is ridiculous because it’s a dress, right? I mean, go buy yourself a stupid dress if you want it so badly.
Anyway, I can’t. And I realized why as I watched Rachel McAdams wear them around Paris like it ain’t no thang. I can’t do it because there was this time when I was about seven years old that I went to school without pants. On picture day. And I’ve been telling myself that it’s no big deal, that it made me a stronger person, blah blah, and that it’s funny actually. And it is. I’m at a place emotionally where I can laugh at this incident, but I think it’s actually a pretty big event in my life, which I’m sure is clear to my friends because I mention it a lot. They’re like, enough about the pants already.
So anyway, long story short, I got this big t-shirt as a gift and I thought if I belted it, it would look like a dress. Only I didn’t have a belt, so I just threw on my Miami Mice sweatshirt over top, hoping the waistband of the sweater would taper the t-shirt in enough to make it look like a skirt. Well it didn’t. But I didn’t get that until I was already at school, sitting at my desk. So in the end I had to wear snow pants around for the rest of the day. Not cool. And I was the new kid, so…
And I’m sure this wouldn’t even translate to today’s youth, who wear shirt dresses or tights (which I also don’t own) in place of pants. But this was 1987 and unless you had your own video on MTV, wearing a t-shirt as a dress was not acceptable. Wearing tights as pants was absolutely acceptable, though, if you had your own exercise video and the tights were hot pink and extra shiny.
So my seven-year-old self starts to cry a little when she sees a nice shirt dress because she wants one, but she’s afraid she’ll find herself in real-life naked dream all over again.
I guess the only place you’ll see me wearing a shirt dress is midnight in my own apartment because sadly, Paris, or any other public place, is definitely out.
Overheard at a concert last night.
Who says that when they are actually at a live show? That they paid to get into? And I’m sorry, but it is 11:30 p.m., lady. If I hated live music I would not be at a show after my bed time. Because if there’s one thing I definitely don’t hate, it’s sleeping. So that leads me to believe that this person also hates sleep, which obviously means she’s a robot. It’s the only explanation.
This is the kind of shit that freaks me out. I mean, death I’m okay with, but coming back to life I most definitely am not. If I die, please play Woody & Dutch on a Slow Train to Peking really loudly. If I don’t wake up and start singing along, I’m definitely dead, so throw a party, get drunk and have a good time. Thank you in advance. And please, do the same and tell your friends and family what song will rouse you from a not-quite-dead state. And also if you want your organs donated. It’s the responsible thing to do.
In order to be considered a candidate for the Hell’s Angels you must have a valid driver’s licence, a working motorcycle and cannot be a child molester or have applied to become a police officer or prison guard? I’ve got three of those things down. Do you think it counts if I know someone who knows someone who has a working motorcycle?
