Three things I’m out of:

• Peanut Butter
• Shape
• Patience

“Smokers believe they have to die a little, just to go outside.”

“I’ve heard it said that people eventually reach a certain age where they learn how to walk through a crowded party without stepping on anyone’s feet.” They learn how to enter. How to exit. How to deal with the push and pull of a throng of people who are standing one on top of the other like Jenga blocks. You move carefully, but with purpose, so as not to collapse the entire structure.

I don’t think I’ve ever reached that age. I often am incapable of taking in oxygen while at a party. I think, in some strange way, I’m only capable of breathing when I’m outside. There is a limited amount of air when standing between four walls which I cannot get to fast enough. It’s as though everyone else’s lungs are somehow more aggressive than mine, more greedy.

For this reason, I’m jealous of smokers. They have a way out. (“Excuse me, where can I go smoke?” “Oh, out back. Right through that door.”) People are always pointing out escape routes for them. Ways to disappear. This is frustrating for those of us who spend our entire lives searching for avenues through which we can gracefully bow out of uncomfortable situations.

There is another side, though.

Because, you see, smokers believe they have to die a little, just to go outside.

Which is odd, if you think about it.

So perhaps it’s the other way around. Maybe smoker’s lungs aren’t passive, like mine. Maybe their lungs are the most greedy. As though they need to inhale more than just air to be satisfied with living.

Assholery

The “top search” for this blog is “my sister’s anus”.

I was not entirely aware that this was a hot conversation topic.

Who knew?

The Curious Incident of the Alarm in the Day-Time

I occasionally do really stupid things in the name of self-sufficiency.

I am regrettably the type of person that always uses self-check outs at grocery stores, even in the most absurd of situations (“Why hello, grocery cart filled with unmarked fresh produce whose names I do not know”). It never goes well. Ever. But I still do it, because theoretically I’m supposed to be smarter than a kumquat and a fancy touch screen calculator.

Recently, my most idiotic instance of stubbornness lies in the battle I have with my alarm clock every morning.

I have no friggin’ idea how to turn off my alarm clock. Ideally, I’m supposed to solve some pretentious and idiotic “math puzzle” which is somehow supposed to “wake up my cognitive functions” so I will miraculously get out of bed instead of hitting the snooze button a couple (hundred) times.

This is not what happens.

When the alarm goes off in the morning I generally just stare blankly at meaninglessly jumbled together numbers for a couple of minutes before violently ripping the battery out of my phone and going back to sleep.

This has officially made me late to work about 18.5 times.

Do I download a new app? No. Do I read the instruction manual? No. Do I ask someone who I know uses the same app? Of course not. What do you take me for? Someone who doesn’t KNOW things?!

A reasonable person at this point should ask, “Why not?”

The answer is not a reasonable one, which is unfortunate as that’s the easiest kind of answer, but fortunately not the only kind.

If I do any of those things it means that the little bastard has won.

And then we’re all just one step closer to the robot apocalypse.

I fight the good fight for us all.

You’re welcome.