Blind Spot.

10 Mar

I exercised for the first time in like 6 weeks yesterday. BOY does my ass kill. Not from the exercise itself, but because of the uncomfortable bike seat I spent 45 minutes sitting on at the gym. Has the world of ergonomics not evolved to a point where fitness machinery no longer feels like a steel-toed boot to the bum after being used? Maybe I’m asking too much.

My contact lenses are giving me attitude. I can’t seem to see correctly through them today. This is irritating since I rely on my vision for, well, everything. Being blind would suck so much. Imagine not being able to tell if the woman you may or may not be hooking up with at the bar is a smoking pistol or an ugly troll. What if you mix salt into your brownie mix instead of sugar? What if you accidentally wear a brown belt with your black pants? What if you shake someone’s breast instead of their hand? There are so many dangers lurking about out there for blind people.

Tomorrow morning I will be racing the ol’ Neon up to Iowa to meet my parents, and then ride with them up to Breckenridge, Colorado to visit my brother Richard, Drew, Jamie, and get my snowboarding on for six days. Two trips in two months, can I even handle it? Too bad I haven’t been working out regularly, as mentioned above. I’m going to be an exhausted, lifeless carcass by the end of the week. My brother mentioned something about taking a hike up to the top of Breckenridge, an elevation of 12,998 feet. It sounds to me suspiciously like exercise. I’m not interested in “hiking,” Richard. Hiking is just an awful term for “walking uphill and torching your thighs with the fire of Satan.” Not interested.

In lieu of my upcoming snowboarding trip, I have spent the better part of my afternoon packing for the occasion. You know, loading up the boots, board, gloves, socks, sweats, blow-dryer, travel-size shampoos and soaps, making a list, checking it six-hundred and forty-two times, that whole chestnut. I hate packing. I hate packing more than George Bush hates black people.


I never know if I’m packing too much or too little. I get “that feeling like I forgot something but I don’t know what.” I wish it were possible to “pack” your things onto a flash-drive and just upload it all once you’ve reached your destination. Now there’s a fine idea. Who do I have to talk to about accepting the Nobel Prize? The best times to reach me are between 10 a.m. and 6 p.m. Thanks.

I have a problem. I keep writing notes faster than people can even read them. Whose problem is this, mine or yours? Here’s the facts, kids: if I’m feeling inspired, I have no choice but to bust out the laptop and roast away on people, products, and Tyra Banks. If I wait, I risk losing witty remarks and material on the spot. Scientifically, most people should be able to read faster than I can type. So….the ball’s in your court, team. Read faster. I am keeping them coming. By the way, if you are a regular reader of my word vomit, subscribe to my publications. You can simply click on the right hand side of the page where it says, “Subscribe to Becca’s Notes” (…could it get any easier? Thanks, Rainman). I am now making a legitimate blog on, so soon my notes will only be accessible through there. No worries though, I will have links galore.

Not that kind of lynx, jackass.

Well, off to have an anxiety attack about luggage again.

Me: God, I wish I had you and Trent with me at all times. Hilarity would ensue.
Cole: We’d be the biggest pack of assholes this side of the Mississippi.
…I don’t know anything about geography.


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