Deciphering the Past

Now that I have time again I thought I'd post! But nothing remotely funny has happened. No epiphanous moments. So in my de-cluttering, semester's end zeal I decided to go through my Word documents and delete things I wont need again (this is fun for me- shut up). I found this gem of a document called "Blog Ideas." And who wouldn't want to read about (copied and pasted as is):

Men who drive minivans

I don’t like Disney songs that made it popular on the radio, like Luther Vandross and Celine Dion (I think?) and their rendition of “Beauty and the Beast.” Or whoever decided that putting “A Whole New World” to a saxophony, smooth-jazz soundtrack was in the best interest of society.

Why I hate people who aren’t me and thus I need to be a hermit

Can’t understand why Diane loves cheese sandwiches. Is she five? (*December 22 time-in: seriously, WHAT was this about? What kind of mood must I have been in to begrudge someone their love of cheese sandwiches?)

So I hate a lot of things. But one of the most annoying things to me is the “ahhh” noise people- mostly people on commercials- make after they take a drink. Was it really THAT refreshing? I think the hatred was exacerbated by my boss, who can’t breathe like a normal human, and every other breath will breathe through his mouth and make the “ahhh” noise. Mostly, I think I hate it because of its very 90s-era association with orange juice, which I’ve always found unappetizing, kind of how I feel about most 90s-era commercials in general. It just makes me think of people with morning breath drinking their pulpy (GROSS) orange juice and “ahh”ing, spreading the orange-tinted morning breath around.

So I can’t work on Fridays. I just can’t do it. It’s funny, because it’s so rarely that I have HUGE weekend plans occupying my mind and making me unable to concentrate. I just have this ridiculous sense of ‘IT’S FRIDAY!” entitlement that stops my brain from doing anything more than reading menus and checking People.com. So especially on Fridays, I rely on emails for entertainment and basic time passing. To get the ball rolling I answered any unanswered email in the inbox and even sent out new ones. I told mom of my travel plans, my friends of my surely boring and obnoxious dream, and me and Joe’s friend about Joe wanting to go out to a restaurant rather than cook. Tick tock. Tick tock. Email from career services. Tick tock. Someone’s apartment is available in Chicago! Whoopdidoo!! Tick tock. Inbox (1)- the vision that sets my heart aflame. It’s from Brian! Maybe he’s suggesting a new restaurant for tonight. Maybe he’s included the website link to save me a whole 7 seconds of google action! No. It’s a one-word response to Joe not wanting to cook. I waited all day for “Fucker.” F MY LIFE.

(*Time in, I may have already posted this. I am disorganized) Today I was eyelining and, somehow, I got a rogue eyelash in my eye. I say somehow in an astounded tone when really it’s not that scandalous thinking of say, pressing down on your lash line and having one of those guys fall in. Anyway, I went to sip my coffee and felt the tell tale skin-crawly feeling of something in my eye. Suppress urge to vomit. Blink, roll eye around, push eyeball with lower eyelid, in an attempt to get the lash into the corner to fish it out. Now, not to toot my own horn, but I’m pretty talented at getting eyelashes out of my eye. As in, I’d add it to my resume as proof of my performance-under-pressure skillz if it was normal. But this one isn’t budging…until it gets to the corner, and to my horror and bewilderment, disappears into the vast abyss behind my eyeball…THE BRAIN. So now I’m living in terror today, wondering when said lash is going to land in the wrong brain crevice, stop oxygen flow to an important organ, and I’ll die. I see it* like one of those cartoons in a heart medication commercial, but instead of plaque filling my arteries, there’s some brain tunnel that’s crucial to my survival, and when the lash flows through it, it flips upright, causing the tunnel to be rendered useless, and I die an embarrassing, vain death. Seriously, I’d be embarrassed to have people attend my funeral if I died from an eyelash/brain blockage. So far I feel ok, and normally oxygenated. We’ll wait and see.

*I also see it as a cute traveler through my bod, like Arnold in The Magic Schoolbus goes like, inside the human body or something. A little adventurous eyelash, holding a stick with a bandana tied to it, filled with its lashy necessities.