Listen, folks. I get that the English language is supposed to be one of the hardest languages to learn in the world. This doesn’t mean it is the hardest language for English-speaking American citizens who were born and raised in the midwest. I have a habit of judging people who frequently misspell certain words. These words include, but are not limited to:
Definitely: Does anyone remember “root words?” The root word of a larger word makes it very easy to break down the spelling of said word. The root word of “definitely” is “definite.” There is no logical reason to add in different letters to make the spelling “definately” or “definetly.”
Tomorrow: I have seen more variations in spelling of the word “tomorrow” than I have seen breeds of tropical fish on the Animal Planet. “Tommorrow,” “tomarrow,” “tommorow.” It’s not a hard word, kids.
You’re and Your: This one really grinds my gears. Oddly enough, it’s one of the easiest to understand. The following is incorrect: Your hot. No. “Your” denotes ownership. As in, “Your body is hot.” That makes sense. That person owns their body. On the other hand, this too is incorrect: “I love you’re outfit.” Do you know what you just said to me? You said, “I love you are outfit.”
The contraction “you’re” is “you are.” Ask yourself if this makes sense next time you use it incorrectly in a sentence, which you will. Slow.
I am currently in the Dirty Bluffs for no more than 24 hours. I returned home for a brief amount of time to a) consume 11 pounds of my mother’s goulash, b) pick up my iMac, and c) con my father into “helping me with” (also see “do my”) taxes, seeing as had I not done my taxes at all, I literally would have paid $9,000 this year. Gross. My dad surprised me by making a giant pineapple cake (my favorite), which will work as my dessert, breakfast, and midnight snack for the time that I am here. I love this cake. It’s DELICIOUS.
On that note, I’m sitting here eating my second piece for breakfast, and naturally I poured myself a nice tall glass of cold milk. Upon first taste of this milk though, I set it down and stare at it. Hmm. Something tastes a little “off.” Am I drinking expired milk? I continue Facebooking and consuming my half pound piece of cake. Again I reach for my glass to wash down my final bite of cake, and again I am off=put by this eerie flavor the milk puts in my mouth. At this point any regular person would have walked to the fridge and investigated the expiration date stamped on the container to see if they were about to get food poisoning, but the fridge is at LEAST 17 feet from where I am sitting, and I didn’t sign up for any track and field activities today, so instead I am just going to live in question. This milk is at that point where, you won’t automatically spew it across the counter because of how it tastes, but it just has a peculiar flavor to it that makes you think something just isn’t quite right, but you can’t quite put your finger on it.
Kind of like when you’re at the mall and you see a woman, but something’s strange about her and you’re not quite sure what it is….. then you realize she’s a man.
I love OPI nail polish. There is no competitor. My issue with this is that I compulsively buy dozens of bottles of nail polish, all of which are relatively the same color. I feel like the degree of separation that distinguishes “violet” from “plum” and “purple” is monumental enough to make it necessary for me to own every shade from A to Z. I have spent my life’s savings on sixty different shades of mauve polishes over the course of my lifetime. Sue me.
Remember being in middle school when there would be a “new kid” joining your school? The teachers prepped you for his or her arrival for weeks before they actually came, letting you know who this person was, and where they were moving from and why they were moving here and telling us to be as welcoming as possible. We got ants in our pants over this kid. Everyone couldn’t WAIT for him to show up, hoping every morning when the bell rang, he would walk through the door and the teacher would introduce him. Everyone really hoped that the new kid would be attractive, too, and dreamed that he would sit at THEIR table at lunch and hang out with THEM at recess.
Why is it then, that in movies, the new kid is always shunned and left alone at lunch and gotten framed for throwing spitballs or writing derogatory notes about the teacher in class out of plain cruelty by the other students? In movies, the new kid is always treated like a freak of nature in school. This is not how I remember my childhood. We got so excited for that new kid. All week long we would cross our fingers that they would be good looking and fun and enjoy Boy Meets World just as much as we did, and that by some divine miracle their last name would start with the same letter as our last name so the teacher would seat them next to us in class and they would be our new best friend. Hollywood.
Anyhooter, I am off to fold laundry, vomit chunky 2%, and fondle my dog.
Me: “New toothbrush, huh?”
Me: “How do you like it?”
Trent: “Oh it’s great. It’s like a car wash for my mouth.”