8 Mile.

7 Mar

Listen, Facebook chat. In case you haven’t noticed, I am TRYING to have a nice conversation with my brother from 14 hours away, and my broken-nosed friend from five hours away, and you are REALLY making it a difficult process. Why is Facebook chat so underdeveloped? I don’t understand why people can build 1,000 acre farms on Farmville, but can’t have an online conversation without being logged off and back on eighty-six times in 45 minutes. Facebook chat is about as reliable as pulling out is as a contraceptive. You’d think with the technology we’ve got going on here, they’d figure something so simple out.

My conversations so far look like this:

Becca: What’s up?

Dane is offline.
Dane is online.
Dane is offline.
Dane is online.
Dane is offline.
Dane is online.

Dane: Nothing.

Dane is offline.
Dane is online.
Dane is offline.
Dane is online.
Dane is offline.
Dane is online.

My, god. I am flustered. All I want to have is a uninterrupted, civil conversation, Mr. Zuckerberg. Figure this shit out.

One time I had a dream about Eminem. Marshall Mathers himself came and kidnapped me from my home, which was awesome. He kept threatening that if I texted anyone and told them where I was, he would kill me. I acted scared, but in my head, I was like, “Sweet, I’m hanging out with Slim Shady!” So we drive for a few hours through this forested area, and finally come to a little village that has a barber shop. This barber shop was filled with all old women who cut everyone’s hair in this tiny mountain town. We stopped in, and Eminem decided to get a new do.

His style of choice was shaving the heads of Mount Rushmore into the back of his hair. It was great. He and I then went to the bathroom together, perhaps to bond. There, he explained to me that when he started his career like ten years ago, he got his hair bleached, and it fried the shit out of his lovely locks. That’s why it was so yellow. He also explained that since he damaged it so badly, it never grew again afterward, and that the hair I was seeing on his head at this moment was the same hair he had had since the beginning of his rapping career. Haha.

So strange.

Last week I drove my car through a car wash for the first time, ever.

I have had this car since I was 16. I am now 21.5 years of age.

Sure, no one likes a dirty car. But do I really want to spend six bucks to get my car clean when it’s just going to get dirty again? Not especially. What made this time different? It all came down to safety. I literally could not see out of my windows or windshields because of the dirty scummy snow-slush residue that had accumulated all over the outside of my car. It became impossible to check my blind spot or see out the back of my car to reverse out of parking spots without risking running over another human being or backing into a Tahoe behind me. Something had to be done.

So I swallowed my pride, and pulled into a Hy-Vee gas station where I sucked it up and purchased a car wash. I couldn’t believe the difference. My car emerged glimmering like a newly shined military shoe. It sparkled like the Northern Lights, and smelled like a lollipop. It was amazing.

It also lasted for only 8 hours. By the next afternoon, my car was caked in filth again, and could be mistaken for a dirty, mud-covered cow. Oh well.

If you’ve sniffed me lately, you might have noticed how tantalizing I smell. The reason? Bath & Body Works Vanilla Noir, which I think they meant to call Vanilla Orgasm. I’m certain that they’ve got Willy Wonka working at their factory. I smell so delicious, I want to lick my forearms like a cat. But I won’t do that, because it is not socially acceptable.

That, and lotion never tastes as good as it smells, ironically.

Well, that’s all for now, folks. Let me rest the ol’ writing machine for a few minutes, and we’ll be back in touch. Ta ta.

“I’m playing 9 letter Scrabble with my mom and I have ‘bevermilf.’ Should I play it?”


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