Look How Funny I Am

We need to talk about my life choices.

I’ve honestly made some pretty bad ones this last year or so. Not life-ruining, but definitely day-ruining.

For instance, on a Wednesday in some December or other, I had to wake up early for work. At the time, my workplace was about an hour away from my house, so I had to get up very early. My car isn’t the most reliable thing in the world, and on top of that, the tires were completely shot at that point in time. This meant I had to leave extra early so I had plenty of time to drive slowly and still get to work punctually.

So naturally, in preparation for said early morning, I went out the night before.

On Tuesdays a local outdoor restaurant/bar has $1 tacos and $3 margaritas for happy hour. This is one of my favorite bars; my friends and I are frequent customers.

So we went to Taco Tuesday and here’s a recap of how the night proceeded:

Margarita, taco, margarita, maargaritaa, screaming, laughter laughter, poop story, laughter laughter, magragriita, taco, laughter, yelling, laughter, blurry, PEETA!!!, margratinta, traffic cones, jousting, laughter, trespassing, theft, wet socks, sleep.

I had to get up at 5:30 in the morning, which is way too early for me, and I stumbled into bed at the very responsible hour of 1:00 am. Four and a half hours of sleep aint bad for a late night/early morning combo.

So Wednesday I woke up feeling fantastic, like a freaking Disney princess.

That was sarcasm, I felt like crap on toast.

I slowly got ready for work, and only dry heaved a handful of times before I grabbed a couple of bottles of Gatorade and headed out the door.

Since I had nothing in my body, the desire to barf was tolerable because if I did go through the motion, nothing came up.

After being on the road for a few minutes, I started to feel better. To the point that I felt I could stomach some hydration, which I desperately needed.

I took a few tentative sips of Gatorade and immediately felt 100% better! Lemon-Lime Gatorade is my best friend when I’m hungover.

I continued driving, feeling good, when I started to feel the nausea come back. I ignored it, and fought it, but I suddenly couldn’t control it anymore.

Before I could grab anything to barf into, yellow liquid spewed out of my face, into the hand I had pointlessly tried to catch the vomit with. I didn’t realize how much Gatorade I had consumed; it just kept coming.

My jacket, my shirt, my seatbelt, my pants, the seat of my car; all soaked with vomit.

This is all taking place in rush hour traffic, mind you, so while I’m puking on myself, I’m also having to avoid getting in a horrible car wreck.

The heaving finally subsided and I was able to get off the freeway and found an empty parking lot to pull into.

I didn’t really know how to handle the situation.

There was nothing in the Emily Post etiquette book to prepare me for vomiting all over myself.

I was already almost all the way to work, so I couldn’t just run home and be a little late; it would be like running home and being hours late.

My boss knew I went out the night before, so I couldn’t exactly call him and say “I threw up on my entire body and clothing, can I please go home and cry?”

He wouldn’t be okay with that.

Thankfully I had some spare clothing in my car, a miracle, so I could change. However, in the time it took me to stop vomiting and get off the freeway and find a safe place to stop, the liquid had soaked through my clothes and all the way into my undergarments.

So I wasn’t forced to be in vomit soaked pants and shirt all day, but I WAS in vomit soaked bra and underpants. Of course, had my hangover brain not been so foggy, I might have realized I could have also just taken off the puke panties.

The bra was more of a problem; I had to leave it on for safety reasons because the office was so cold.

I awkwardly changed my clothes in the car and made my way to work.

Some days, I very much miss that job, and it was days like this that I was extremely grateful for it. I didn’t work around anyone, and none of my supervisors were onsite. I sat in a hidden cubicle, and that day I didn’t speak to a single human other than the security guy at the front who checked me in.

We were both grateful that he had a thick glass window protecting him from my disgustingness.

I didn’t reek of vomit but I definitely wouldn’t have been great to hug.

The rest of my day was spent struggling to type on account of the hangover shakes and taking frequent naps under my desk.

I love jeans. If I have a good pair of jeans, I must wear them. I must wear them to death. I can’t put them aside and save them for special occasions; they must be on my body at all times.

I will wear the good-butt jeans hanging out at my house, family’s house, Wal-Mart, doing laundry, scrubbing the floors; anytime. I have to.

The problem is that I don’t accompany my love of good-looking jeans with a love of good quality jeans. I’ll buy an $8 pair of jeans and then cry when they rip after I’ve worn them for thirty days straight.

I have to buy a new pair of jeans almost as often as I have to buy laundry detergent.

So I’d like to share with you the dilemma I was having one night. My favorite pair of skinnies is ripped right in the ass, and the tear is a flight-risk; at any moment, one wrong move and it will continue to rip all the way around. (I’ll share the story of how they ripped, soon.)

This, of course, won’t stop me from wearing them.

In my efforts to find something to wear for my evening out tonight, I put on the ol’ Rip Torns. I was determined to make them work because damn, do I make- them- work.

I tried the hipster thing where you tie a flannel shirt around your waist. Alas, useless hipster flannel really isn’t my thing. I can pull off the extreme angst of a hipster, but not the “too cool” vibe. I don’t think I can qualify as “too cool” when I have, on multiple occasions, climbed on top of various animal statues pretending to conquer something.

I moved on to the next attempt to hide my pants-butt hole. (Teehee)

A long jacket with tails. Yes, I own a jacket with tails. It was purchased during my wannabe skater days. It’s not like a tux jacket; it’s a jacket for warmth that has tails. Why are you questioning it?

Sadly my tails jacket is missing an important button over the chest so it gaped like something was trying to escape. Surprise, it was my boobs!

I nixed the gaping-boob-tail jacket and tried just tying a sweater around my waist; simple, effective, possibly perfect. However, we were going out to dinner, and it was too casual for the “look” I was going for.

After a few more sad attempts, I finally landed on a high-low shirt that I had completely forgotten about. It just about covered the hole, which was good enough at this point, I grabbed gaping tails jacket anyways, and headed out.

Half-way through the evening, I stopped caring about whether someone could see my pants-hole and ditched the jacket for a more comfortable one that I stole from my friend.

So this thing happened while I was in the shower a while back. I was working from home so I didn’t have anywhere to be so I was taking a long luxurious shower. Thinking about life, singing, carrying on imaginary conversations, the usual.

The other day, whilst I was on my lunch break, I got a severe craving for orange chicken. I couldn't stop thinking about it. I had to have it or I was going to go crazy. 

I had been running a couple of errands for my bosses, so I thought I'd stop on my way back to the office. Unfortunately, on the way to Panda Express, one thing led to another and I had a panic attack in a tunnel. 

So I scurried back to work without getting my orange chicken so I could cry in the bathroom for twenty minutes. 

The next day, I thought I'd try again. To my anguish and elation, I discovered there's a Panda Express like five minutes from my work.

The lunch hour rolled around and I bounced out of the office like I was Pepe Le Pew and orange chicken was my Penelope.

While pulling into a parking spot, I was so excited about getting orange chicken that I bumped into the car in the spot next to me.  

Thankfully, it was a huge truck so i just nudged the back tire a little. Upon exiting the car, I was all flustered but relieved that there was zero damage to either vehicle. 

Still discombobulated, I began my trek across the pavement to the glorious Panda Express building.

As I neared the building, a car drove by me, and a man looked at me with a strange grin across his face. 

Naturally, I assumed I looked cute that day and he was smiling in appreciation, so I gave him a bright smile in return and continued on my way

I walked up to the doors, and as I opened them, noticed a couple of men inside looking at me strangely, almost like they were trying to avoid looking at me. It was at this same moment that the cold air conditioned atmosphere inside came tumbling out at me, and I noticed something felt a little bit off.

One side of me felt drafty.

I glanced down and there staring back at me was my left boob, the "magic zone" just barely covered by my strapless bra. 

I quickly pulled my dress back up and, pretending like nothing happened, got in line because I sure as hell wasn't about to leave. I needed chicken.

I still don't know how I managed to get across the entire parking lot without realizing that I had a tit out but I sure did. 

And wouldn't you know it? After all that; I still had to pay for my food.

I cannot enough sing the praises of a good doughnut. A doughnut can lift one’s spirits and make the world seem new and bright. A doughnut can show you the world. Shining, shimmering, splendid- wait, that’s Aladdin.

In order to share with you how I feel about doughnuts, I have written a haiku, I call it “Doughnut?”

                                           My sweet sweet doughnut

                                      Doughnut, how do I spell that?

                                             Doughnut or Donut?

  Really though, “doughnut” looks right to me. But “donut” does too.

  I’ve now spelled it so many times, they both look horribly wrong. I’ll use both.

Anyways, back to the story; I love doughnuts/donuts.  If you’re trying to win me over, bring me a doughnut and you’re in.

The other day I was having a bad day and my friend, angel that she is, brought me a donut.

The joy I experienced while eating this doughnut is such that I cannot explain it. My life seemed complete. Problems no longer existed. Anything was possible!

While I was aggressively consuming said donut, another friend, angel that she is, snapped a picture of my doughnut experience.

When I say aggressively, I’m not exaggerating. I aggressively destroyed that donut.

Imagine if a beaver’s children were being attacked by a doughnut, and the only way to save them was to attack the vicious pastry with all the fury and ferocity of its beaver ancestors; that was this picture.

Needless to say, we got a pretty good laugh out of this masterpiece.

Now, I don’t have a whole lot of shame. It takes quite a bit to embarrass me. I mean, I get into epic Ugly Face battles via SnapChat with my friends, and I ain’t ashamed of the hideousness my face can muster. But this picture was so unattractive, I wanted it destroyed.

Yeah, that didn’t happen.

Later that day, we had some friends over and a couple of them got ahold of the picture taker’s phone and, angels that they are, sent themselves the Donut Destroyer picture.

So now it exists out in the universe, at the ready should I ever make any of my friends unhappy.

On that day, on the whisper of the wind you’ll sense an impending doom. You’ll hear the chime of your mobile telephone and peer at it only to see the horrible disfigured wrath of the Doughnut Destroyer.

I suffer from a phenomenon called stress phlegm, or as science calls it; Anxiety Mucous.

What this means is that any time I’m experiencing any kind of anxiety, much like head sweat or armpit sweat, the inside of my throat likes to sweat. This makes conversation difficult when I’m not relaxed.

Don’t get me wrong, I get all the other kinds of sweat too; I turn into Moist’s sad super hero sister; Damp.

If you need something dampened, or made soggy, I’m your gal. Please don’t take that the wrong way.

So if I’m ever excessively clearing my throat and holding my arms at my side in person, take it as a compliment. It just might mean I find you attractive enough that I’m stress sweating.

Or, more likely, I can sense someone attractive on my radar, and the impending doom of their presence has set my defense mechanisms into action.

I was once asked by a friend after saying something stupid to someone, why I say things like that. My response was, “I have no idea.”

I’ve recently been thinking about this; why do I say these things? Often I can feel that it’s not a good thing as the words are coming out of my mouth, but there’s just no stopping it. It’s like those horses that were trained to never stop running unless they hear the stop word. In my case, there is no stop word for my mouth. My words just keep barreling right on out until they crash into the ear holes of those around me.

So let’s just get something cleared up. If you ask my friends, “Why does she say things like that?”, they’ll shrug, sigh and say, “That’s just her. You get used to it.”

No one knows why I do these things! Even I don’t have an explanation for you!

For instance, one time I was meeting a friend of a friend. His name was Evan. My friend and I were talking to him and as I was shaking his hand, I was thinking about how I didn’t know anyone else with that name. I’m pondering this while still holding onto his hand.

He started to get uncomfortable and said “I’m gonna need that hand back.”

Instead of just saying “Sorry I was spacing” or something equally normal, I got weird and said “Oh sorry, it’s a nice hand. I want it.”

We all got really quiet. I could see my friend out of the corner of my eye; I’ve never seen a person’s eyes get so huge.

As we all tried to recover from how weirded out by me we were, the conversation awkwardly started up again.

Later, as we were leaving, trying to joke it off, I said, with a wink and a finger gun, “Hey, it was nice to meet you! Nice hand! Haha!”

He chuckled nervously and didn’t say anything.

Apparently what he got from that was that I had a crush on him. First of all buddy, don’t flatter yourself. Second of all, if I did have a crush on you, it’s not a big triumph for you. I was sixteen; I also had a crush on Robin from Teen Titans. He’s a cartoon.

The moral of the story is, whatever happens; happens. There’s no rhyme or reason to my words or actions, and I’m sorry if I’ve ever accidentally hit on you.

I probably wasn’t aware it was happening.

Although I’m awkward on a daily basis even now, I thought I’d start sharing some stories from when I was a wee awkward lass.

This story took place in about the eighth grade…

I was always bad at the sports. To this day, I can’t even bowl. Any kind of sport involving a ball is beyond my skillset. I can sit in the sidelines, drink beer, and cheer like nobody’s business though!

 In middle school, they separated the boys and girls for Physical Education activities. (Is this what every school does or just my tiny Footloose town?)

This particular afternoon, I was grateful that none of the boys I liked were in the room.

We had been doing a basketball “tournament”, which involved me trotting back and forth between the hoops, trying to stay out of my team’s way and not trip anyone or get hit in the face.

I usually ended up chatting with whoever I was told to block. It was nice when it was one of my friends because usually, neither of us wanted to be there, and neither of us cared about sportball. (There’s so many sports involving the word “ball”, it became easier to use one word to describe them all.)

 I’m a terrible team mate.

When class was over, and I had done my share of pretending I was useful or had any idea what was happening; we headed back to the locker rooms.

While going back to the locker room, I made the terrible choice to jog to get out of my stupid gym clothes sooner.

I was jogging back, and started to trip, whereupon I did the “windmill” move to try to catch myself, while still jogging.

I continued to stumble, and when I was about to fall, I reflexively grabbed for anything to catch myself.

Unfortunately, all there was to grab was a girl running in front of me.

I reached out, by now almost parallel to the ground, and grabbed the poor girls leg.

I didn’t trip her. No, she didn’t go down with me.

Just her pants did.

I instinctively latched on to her gym shorts and was taking them to the floor.

She tried to continue running, attempting to wriggle herself from my grasp. She looked at me like I was a maniac, while hissing “What the hell are you doing? Let go!”

I finally made it all the way to the ground, and she released herself from my pants-stealing grip, pulled her pants back up, and ran off muttering to herself furiously.

I lay on my face for a moment, and heard the gym teacher chuckling behind me. She put her stern coach face back on and said, “Alright get up! To the locker rooms!”

I scrambled up and slowly made my way to the locker rooms to change.

You know, I have all these stories, and I never really thought about the other side of them. I wonder if Pants Girl ever tells the story when that weird girl with greasy hair tried to pants her in gym.

I’m glad she was wearing underwear; she was the type who I wouldn’t be surprised if she went without. That would have been a whole new level of uncomfortable for everyone involved, seeing as how my face was up close and personal with her backside while I slid to the floor.

Now when people ask me why I don’t play sports I like to say, “I don’t sports. It’s a bad idea. People’s pants end up coming off.”

I apologize for the length of this one. Yeah. I said that.

Anyone who knows me well  will be able to tell you that I suffer from some amount of social anxiety. What this means is that normal everyday situations that are no big deal for normal people, are scary for me.

For example, something as simple as going to buy a new tire is extremely stressful.

Now, I’m 22; this should be something that is no cause for anxiety to me. I’m an adult! Not a good one, but an adult nonetheless. I should be able to endure adult situations in life.

But here’s how it went down:

I’ve been putting the tire thing off for a while because I hate dealing with car stuff.

Sidebar: I want a car that can take care of itself. Where’s that breakthrough, Science?? Eh? You’re droppin the ball a little, guys. It’s 2014! I shouldn’t have to maintain my car anymore!

Anywho, since I’ve only lived in the area for a couple of months, I’ve never been to the local tire establishment. The “new” aspect of things is where a lot of my anxiety comes from.

At the place I used to go to, they have lanes that you drive into for what type of service you need, and they come out to you and you tell them what’s up.

I had no idea if this new place was like that also, or what. So I drove there, and drove by the open bays where there were guys working. I went by really slowly, waiting to see if one of the guys was going to come out and help me.

They didn’t.

So, we just stared at each other for a bit while I crept by like a confused stalker.

Then I decided maybe I’m supposed to park, so I pulled into the nearest spot, or should I say, two spots. The two that were furthest away from the door, actually.

I lingered in my car for a second, with one foot out the door, again; waiting to see if they come to you to assess the situation.

They don’t.

 So I awkwardly got out and went inside where a very nice man named Ralph kindly ignored how much of a hot mess I was and helped me out. Here’s how our conversation went:

He asked what he could help me with, to which I said “I need to get a tire looked at.”

I’m sure he was surprised by that, since he in fact worked at a tire store.

He smiled and said “What’s the problem with it?”

I replied, a little too loudly, “It got a leak!”

He said “Alright well, let’s go out to your car and take a look.”

He followed me out to the car, making a comment about how far away I parked; I replied that it was a nice day; a little outside time wouldn’t kill him.

He took a look at the sad tire in the trunk and, after letting me know it couldn’t be saved, noticed my golf clubs in the trunk.

“Do you golf?” he asked.

I shrugged. “I’ve hit a few balls, but those clubs have never seen a golf course.”

I shook my head, thinking, I’ve hit a few balls??

He laughed and said “What? You got clubs but never used them? Girl! It’s a fun sport!”

“Yeah, I enjoy going! I like driving the cart and drinking the beer!”

He threw his head back and laughed. “I got ya. I like you. I bet you’re fun to hang out with.”

I thought to myself, If only you knew about the time, recently, when I was in a social setting with a large group.  I hit a guy I barely know in the face. And it was only sort of an accident.

Ralph also noticed the guitar in my trunk and asked accusingly, “Well do you play guitar?”

I laughed and said “Not that one! It’s only got two strings!”

As he laughed loudly I said, “The trunk is apparently where I keep all my abandoned hobbies. If you look closely, you’ll also see an old notebook, probably containing pieces of one or two songs I’ve written.”

He chuckled and shook his head, and told me to follow him inside where he got me set up with a new tire. Amazingly; there were only one or two more awkward moments after that.

Every time I’ve ever had to get any maintenance done on my car, whether it has to do with the tires or even something like an oil change, it’s been equally or more awkward than this situation.

I’m thinking I should just start riding a bike instead. Although, that would make for awkward street-crossing moments and I would probably crash into a tree. Or a wall. Or somehow, both.

I guess I’ll stick with the car and hope that someday, I’ll be grown up enough to handle these situations with ease and grace.

I went to the park with a friend the other day, and while most of the time was spent acting our age, at one point we decided we wanted to swing. (The playground kind)

Swinging was always my favorite playground activity, so a-running to the swings we went. As we were swinging (and taking pictures and videos of ourselves swinging of course) a girl came over and sat in the swing next to mine.

She was probably about 13 or 14 years old; just an adorable little thing.

My friend and I were being our usual snarky selves, making jokes about the swings breaking or tipping over because they’re used to child sized bodies, not our adult sized bodies, and I noticed the girl chuckling at some of the things we were saying.

Being the ham that I am (new children’s book?), I wasn't about to stop making jokes if someone was laughing, even if she was only 14 or so.

My humor shows no prejudice.

So I continued with the snark, and she started chatting about her school, how the older kids always went crazy on the swings and how they almost tipped the whole thing over once.

She was cracking me up, and she was so stinking sweet; I wanted to hang out with her.

Until, that is, I remembered my age, and how super creepy that would be in the eyes of her parents.

Because odds are, if I did spend time with her, I would forget our age difference and end up saying something wildly inappropriate for the ears of a 13 year old, and it would get back to her parents and the authorities would be notified and it would become a big thing, even though it was totally innocent.

Kind of like that time when I was about 18 and I was in the pool with some friends’ kids, all boys I might add. They were trying to throw me in the pool, and once, a couple of them were successful. When I went in, my bottoms came all the way down, and three of the boys were underwater with goggles.  

Their heads popped up out of that water like a pack of piranhas was coming towards them.

Anyways between flashing my piranha to a bunch of teenage boys and trying to befriend a teenage girl on the playground, someone someday is going to ban me from parks and the like. 

So I decided it would be best to take my leave of the situation, and I went and played on the monkey bars.

I just hope park girl stays that cool for the rest of her life.

Be you, park girl. Be you.

Recently having moved to a new state, I've been job hunting like crazy. With job hunting, you know you're going to encounter some weirdos and awkward situations before you find a job that fits.

Today, it went a little beyond that.

Looking for jobs; I’m on craigslist a lot, because there are occasionally some gems on there that would be a good employment opportunity.

However, it is Craigslist. There's also the occasional super creep on there.

I saw an ad that confused me, so, naturally I clicked on it to learn more. 

That was a terrible decision.

The ad title was "Model Quality lady aged 18-30, get paid and live for free!"

The "get paid and live for free" part was what caught my eye, already this sounds like a pretty weird thing. Are brothels still a thing? 

Anyways, so I click into this ad and it only gets better. And by better, I mean so much worse.

Turns out he is a "business man" looking for a "model quality very attractive lady to be a live in personal assistant."

He mentions he has three kids under the age of 11, you know, to make him seem like less of a predator.

He goes on to say "my job is to take care of all your needs; your job would be to take care of all my needs!"

He wants someone to take care of his needs. This is not ok. 

He says "Your job would be to assume all of the duties and responsibilities and benefits of a wife, my job would be to make sure your life was perfect, including most or all of your personal needs and some of your wants met."

I’m pretty sure this is considered prostitution.

He concludes the ad by saying “This is an opportunity to have use of a vehicle, smartphone, monthly massage, weekly cash, no pressure of bills, a happy lifestyle that has a future.”

Monthly massage.

Now if this was the setup you had with a husband, it sounds like it would be a pretty sweet deal, but in this case, I’m pretty sure we can all agree that he definitely has girls locked in his basement. And any “kids” that he has; I would say, pretty confidently, that they are not there by choice.

I feel like I should flag this post, and alert the authorities, but also a part of me wants to share it with the world. So I'll post a link so you can read this magic yourself. Feel free to pass it on.

I'm slightly curious if he got anyone; because he really doesn't know how to veil his rape trap.

We all know Craigslist gets pretty sketchy sometimes, and I hope everyone exercises extreme caution when interacting with others on there. Ordinarily I would say you never know who's on the other side of the internet, but I think in this case, we know exactly who's on the other side of the internet.

If you've ever fallen asleep in your Snuggie, you know that it can be something of a safety hazard. I warn anyone reading this, put it to the test at your own risk.

There was a time, a couple of years back, that I discovered I accidentally owned a Snuggie. So naturally, while I was sick one day, I decided it was a good idea to sleep in the warm comfort of the Snuggie’s arms.

The Snuggie was the closest thing I had to someone to hold me and make me feel better. So I bundled up in my comfortable clothes, wrapped myself in the Snuggie, and climbed into bed to read my favorite book, “Hop on Pop.”

Soon after settling in, and starting in on my book, I began to grow drowsy and before I knew it I had fallen asleep.

I awoke in a panic, realizing I had no air, and my warm, safe, comforting Snuggie was trying to commit homicide on me. If you've ever been strangled in your sleep by someone you thought you could trust, then you know how I feel.

I untangled myself from the death-dealing arms of Snuggie and hurled it across the room, screaming “You maniac! I could have died! What’s wrong with you?!”

After I caught my breath and calmed down, I realized just how close of a call that had been. Imagine if Snuggie had been successful that night; the scandal that would have caused. People never would have looked at my family the same.

Imagine them trying to explain how I died.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, how did it happen?”

“She was strangled.”

*GASP* “How dreadful! Did they catch the cad who did it?”

“Well, the cad didn’t really run away.”

“Oh?”

“She was strangled by her Snuggie.”

“…..oh. I see. How…..tragic.” *Walks away in confusion*

While death by Snuggie makes for a good story, and of course, only I could go out that way, it’s not how I hoped it would happen. Ideally, if I have to die, I’d like it there to be a pterodactyl nearby, whether it’s alive or not, either way; what a great way to go out.

So ever since then, I occasionally will awaken with the fear that I may die in my sleep, so I strip down and sleep in the buff because, better safe than sorry.

I got caught in a YouTube-nado, (A deadly tornado of YouTube videos) last night for about five hours and things got pretty intense. Normally when I get sucked into the vortex, I end up on the weird side of YouTube, watching videos about kids born with only half a brain or a giant tumor or something.

On this fateful night, however, I managed not to get on a tangent, and I stayed in the “comedy” vein pretty well. I wound up on a channel that I subscribe to, that, for the most part, has really funny videos and manages to make me laugh every time I visit.

Keep in mind that by this time, it was the middle of the night.

The person who the channel belongs to is a person I could see hanging out with, he actually reminds me of a friend. Anyways, he has a few videos where he basically just walks around his house and rambles about what’s been going on that week, and what’s coming up on his various channels.

The video I had landed on was one such post in which he was rambling from the comfort of his bedroom. More specifically, the comfort of his bed.

The combination of the lateness of the hour and the personal nature of his location resulted in an awkward moment where I responded to the video as if he was in the room telling me about his day.

He was talking about his neighbors and I was only half paying attention, being in the middle of my Star Wars history book, and I realized I was “mmhmm”ing and then I said “that sucks.” when he complained about his neighbor.

Not earth shattering, but a little ineffective if you’re talking to a video recording.

Apparently I have enough of a desire to be his friend that I’m being supportive even without his knowledge. Almost without my knowledge as well; it happened before I even knew what was going on. I feel like I’m teetering dangerously close to “fangirl” territory.

“If only you knew about the long conversations we’ve had as we lay in our beds, you’d love me too.”

I realized after that that it was probably a good time to stop with the internet and go to sleep. You know it’s enough when you forget that the people you cyberstalk are not actually your friends.

*laugh hysterically then start crying*

I have the ability to be an amazing conversationalist….after I’ve had three beers that is.

After three beers, an engaging and witty super hero emerges. Able to carry on a conversation with someone I’m uncomfortable with, and seem genuinely interested in them, for an extended period of time! I decided to name this smooth, super-human alter-ego of mine, Regina.

Regina is who I wish I was when I am sober. She’s so much cooler than I am. She has the power to be clever and appealing to Humans.

She is a delightful person who lives on a houseboat on the Adriatic. She inherited a lot of money from an obscure uncle, so is therefore ridiculously wealthy without having to lift a finger. She spends her days eating imported cheese and photographing her two Labradors; Malcolm and Patrick.

If I was her all the time, I’d be funny and charming and get free coffees and free drinks and people would like me.

My civilian identity, (me) on the other hand, converses like Swedish Chef from the Muppets.

Bork bork!

People walk away confused after a conversation with me; because, you see, they don’t care who the gorram Reavers are. They don’t understand why Grand Admiral Thrawn is such a badass. And they are more likely to think that a Weeping Angel is a type of tombstone than “the deadliest, most powerful, most malevolent life form” in the universe.

Yes, essentially, when I open my mouth, most people hear only a series of borks and clicking noises before they begin to back away slowly.

There’s this woman, a friend of my cousin’s, who to be quite honest has always scared the crap out of me. She’s beautiful, very thin, always looks put together, and she has insults (complete with comebacks that will obliterate anything you could possibly come up with) enough to make Liam Neeson cry for his mommy.

Pretty, and mean? I’m no match!

Of course, I can’t just be composed and try to give her a wide berth. She joined a gathering of my family’s a while back and, as always, her insults were in fine form. Naturally, I kept my distance. Most of the evening, I darted around and shivered in the corner like an abused Whippet.

Inevitably, our paths crossed as it was not a huge house that we were in. She happened to come in my direction right as I was blowing my nose. My initial reaction was to start shaking and look for an adult to hide behind.

All she said was “Hey”, in passing. And my response was to pull the tissue a few inches away from my face to say hello back. Only, the snot inside of my face hadn't completely left my body. A long string of mucous hung between my nose and the tissue as I nasally said “Hey” in return. She frowned and simply continued on her way.

In just seconds, this encounter was a perfect demonstration of entire personalities. I was the nasally, snot faced dweeb, and she was the graceful, normal human being who I grossed all over.

You know, I see all these prim, proper girls with perfect hair and nice legs and it’s just such a strange concept to me.

I’m just not that type of girl. I’m the type of girl who goes to the gym a couple of times once or twice in her life then brags about how she “goes to the gym.” I don’t “go” to the gym. I went to the gym, twice, and farted a lot on the treadmill because my body wasn’t used to movement. Then, to try to be smooth and cover it up, I “coughed”, which only forced more flatulence out of me.

I’m also the type of girl who wants to get in shape to lose those few extra pounds I could do without. So all day I tell myself I’m gonna go for a run at the end of the day. Then, instead of going for a run, I eat half a pack of Oreos and watch six and a half episodes of 30 Rock before passing out in my beanbag chair.

I guess I can give up my dream of becoming a Top Model and focus on more realistic goals from my "Life Goals" list...

43. Go to Greece

44. Write a novel

45. Learn how to Mime

46. Become a Top Model

47. Go blonde

48. Do karaoke (not in my living room)