I’m becoming terrified of being on the road as of late. I have a growing, erratic fear of other cars careening into my lane after missing me in their blind spot, or cars not waiting at stop signs and pulling out in front of my vehicle, causing me to smash into them full-force. I’m turning into my mother. Trent will be driving along, and every four minutes, I’m gasping like I just saw someone run over a pedestrian, wild-eyed, and heart rate climbing, grabbing at the steering wheel from the passenger seat in an attempt to “save our lives” because I think the Jeep Grand Cherokee in the lane next to us is going to veer over and hurl our car off the bridge and into the river. I’m so scared. I’m clinically paranoid. I need to start drinking before driving.
Why does Facebook chat try to make me look stupid? And why does Facebook underline “Facebook” as a misspelling? I’m so frustrated.
People are really into the Lotto here in the Northeast. It’s really strange. You cannot go into a gas station and buy a Gatorade without waiting for at least 10 minutes at a bare minimum behind someone who is purchasing their lottery tickets for the day. “Yeah, gimme ah, gimme fowa’ Lucky Lottos, 3 Scratch N Wins, make one of doze ah 3, 6, 12, 14, 12….and ah, make dat udda one a 24, 25, 9, 13, 2….get dat Powa Ball one, and—wait, how much is dat so far? —Air-raight, air-raight, and ah, you know what, you pick da numbas for dat last one, wouldja?”
What bothers me is that these people are the same people using food stamps to purchase Chef Boyardee and Double Stuf Oreos in the convenience store; these people are also the same people that I am funding with my fricking tax returns every year to buy Virginia Slims and Old English at the Kum & Go six days a week, that claim they can’t pay for health care or their kids’ education. I have an outlandish idea—how about you bastards stop buying Lotto tickets and Marlboros every day and buy medicine for your self-induced obesity-related diabetes instead? I need to be the president. I have all the answers.
I need a pet, stat. In the last two days, I have visited three pet stores just for the hell of it. I have this strong, maternal instinct to nurture animals. Kind of like how females are supposed to be with babies I guess, except I could give a rat’s ass about an infant, and at the same time I would throw myself in front of a moving vehicle for a puppy without thinking twice about it. I need a dog. Or a rat. Or a bunny rabbit.
Kidding about the rabbit. I owned 8 of them throughout my childhood. Snowball, Snowflake (…I had a few albinos, I get it), Peter, Emily, Sally, Nibbles, Buttons, and…..well, I can’t remember the name of the last one. I believe it started with the letter “T.” No matter. Rabbits are fun until their poop collects big and tall in the corner of their cage like they’re scheming to build a replica of the Great Pyramids of Giza. Then at night they start chewing on their metal cage like a prisoner gone mad, trying to break free from Alcatraz. You let them out to run around a bit and they bolt behind the entertainment stand where they hide and then pee on the carpet. It’s frustrating. Damnit, they’re cute as a button when they’re little though.
I ran out of pain killers yesterday after my 80th migraine this year, so today at the grocery store I sought out the medication aisle to pick up some ibuprofen or acetaminophen (off brand of course; fancy packaging doesn’t fool me). I scanned the four shelves of Tylenol, Advil, Aleve, and Aspirins, having a difficult time finding any off-brand painkillers in 500 mg. Finally my eyes fell on two random packages of 500 mg acetaminophen, except that they were flavored. “Cool Blast Coating!” the package boasted. I looked at the next package. “Sweet Candy-like Coating!” it read. Do the pharmacists creating these drugs think I’m going to be chewing my pills up like freaking Chiclets? These aren’t Tic-Tacs, doc. I’m not going to be popping these into my mouth before a hot date to suckle on and freshen my breath. Why did they even bother going through the trouble of doing this? I just don’t understand. It just seems really unnecessary.
Even more unnecessary, however, is this man’s shiny visor:
Why does this hat exist? This man had to have fashioned it himself. What you are now looking at, and please pardon the quality of the photo, I did my best, is a visor made entirely out of braided, metallic, almost mirror-like pieces. You know those bracelets we used to make out of Starburst wrappers when we were in middle school? (When I say ‘we,’ I mean everyone but me because I didn’t know how)—-
This hat is made exactly like that, except out of shiny mirror. What the hell? Why is he wearing this hat? I don’t know if this man knows that he is near the age of 30. Hopefully he’s blind. Or maybe he lost a bet. There has to be a logical explanation.
Well, I’m out. Talk to you choads later.
“My cousin’s friend has an autistic son, and he called her at the grocery store today and told her he had caught a troll. She said okay and just played along. (‘My son is a retard’ is what she was thinking). Anyway, she got home and there was a midget trapped in his closet. He captured a fucking midget who was selling things door to door and shoved him in the closet.”