Boobs. When you’re young, you flaunt’m. When you get older, you push’m up.
On my walks along the lake, I always see college-aged girls wearing tiny tops and mom jeans. It’s a cute look. The appearance of so much flesh is jarring at first, but then it reminds me of when I wore two bandanas tied together as a shirt to my college classes. Whoa girl. Youth is bold.
I purchased the tied-together bandana shirts for five bucks each, from a store located on the first floor of my apartment building. A woman named Sue owned the store. She was…
What’s the deal with salads? Why are they so fucking hard to make? Why do they have to be such dicks? I’m sorry if I’ve offended dicks, but that’s what salads are. Just a bunch of dicks.
“Why dicks?” You may ask. “Is this gender bias? Can a salad be a vagina?”
No, a salad cannot be a vagina. Thanks for asking. A salad can only be a dick.
“Why are you comparing dicks to salads?” You may ask.
Good question. I’m not. I’m using the word dick as an insulting word, like “Gosh, Marcie, don’t be such a dick.”
I’m attracting chaos. Not the fun kind. Twice in two weeks, a young man bashed his truck into my station wagon at the YMCA parking lot. Not the same young man either. I’m starting to understand why young men have high insurance premiums.
The first time the guy crashed into me, my car survived with a manageable scratch. The kid was 16. He hadn’t aged out of puberty. I consoled him. I felt like I should buy him a Pepsi or offer him a joint. I got his number and told him it was probably nothing.
The second young man…
I know this couple where the woman is so nice, but the guy is a jerk? Why did she marry him? He sucks! He’s such a loser.
Personally, I hardly know the guy. I’ve never spoken to him. He could be growing a Mother Theresa garden in his cellar, for all I know. Every-crappy-thing I’ve ever heard about him was passed onto me by his wife. If she were my PR firm, I’d fire her. No severance. Don’t your ass on the way out.
But why would she lie about his being sexist, racist, classist? …
Never swam butterfly in the Olympics with water-filled goggles and still won the gold? Never sprinted past neon-haired goddesses on the Toyko track feeling that winning ribbon push across your abs? Never threw a shot put past the Hulk? Don’t beat yourself up. Buy a Wheaties tombstone and let passers-by know you’re a dead winner!
When my friends found out I lived next to a cemetery, they shuddered. “Doesn’t that freak you out?” one of my visitors said. It didn’t.
The freaked-out visitor was a surgeon. I thought life and death would have felt less dramatic to her. But maybe the precariousness of mortality was too vivid at her workplace. Maybe, when she returned home, she preferred watching kids jump roping in the street, not reading the dates off of gravestones.
I wondered why the stones didn’t bother me. I’d known a lot of dead people, some who even met sad or violent ends. But…
Is it okay to eat with your dog? Is it okay to take your dog to restaurants? Is it okay to bring your dog into a dressing room and ask them if those jeans make you look fat? Is it okay to take your dog to Home Depot and-Oh my God!
Hey! Stop! Your dog just took a crap in aisle 7!
Are you really not picking that up? There’s a Pet Smart next door where you can buy poop bags. I’ll wait here while you buy them. You’re not coming back, are you?
Phew. The man in the orange…
Amazon sent me a Kaboom bathroom spray with no ability to spray. The richest company on the planet, and they couldn't spring for a nozzle and a lid? What am I supposed to do with that junk? Can I stick another spray lid on it? Can I saw off the top and pour it? Can I get a baby to nurse it and spit it out onto my dingy sink? Naw naw and naw.
You know what this blatant disrespect reminds me of, Amazon? When my sisters and I give each other coupons for each other’s birthdays instead of springing…
Why isn’t Mark Zuckerberg interested in going back to space? Bezos visited his grandma on his tiny spaceship. Richard Branson even visited his ex-girlfriend, who incidentally lost her virginity to him. But when Zuckerberg was offered the opportunity to go back to his home planet, he looked spaced out.
His alien siblings weren’t surprised. “That guy,” said his brother ZPOMRK. “He thinks if he comes home, everyone’s going to make the Alien connection. I got news for you, brother. Everybody already knows you‘re no homo sapiens.”
Zuckerberg’s brother continued shaking his Brachil at me.“Listen to me, KTYLY!” he said, addressing…
I’m concerned. My angst is subsiding. The flotsam I gathered from self-loathing is dropping off of me like mutinous Christmas tree ornaments. “Run from the pine! Hustle!”
In my Sex in the City Carrie Bradshaw voice, I ask myself, “Can happy people still write?”
The curmudgeon in me pokes out her ornery head and declares, “Nope. That’s the one beautiful side effect of misery. Prolific pontificating! Don’t you get it, ding dong? You’re either miserable and writing your ass off, or you’re happy, and you’re well is dry.”