People are funny (funny ho-ho, not ha-ha), especially in groups. You can be in line someplace, and very clearly signs are posted that say “close all gaps, and keep single file,” yet the Line Police will have to speak loudly and slowly to a bunch of bunched up fucking twat waffles who either, a) are blind, so they can’t read, b) can read, but don’t give a flying fuck about rules, or c) didn’t see the sign because they’re unobservant twat waffles. And that’s not even the funny part. Because, d) there are those who can read and do give a fuck about rules in general, but for some fucking reason, when standing in a line, they prefer to do what everyone else is doing. When the Line Police show up, these are the people who act like they’ve been trying to remedy the situation on their own all along. They turn to their friends, or spouses and say, “See? I fucking told you so. I’m embarrassed now because you didn’t listen to me.”
When I was a kid in elementary school, I had a friend named Jessica, and she had two older sisters, Megan and Amanda. The family lived in a three bedroom house. Each month, the sisters took turns having their own room. Actually, they did have to share the single bedroom with one other–Arnie, the parrot. Amanda was Arnie’s favorite. Every time I slept over at Jessica’s, and Amanda wasn’t Arnie’s roomie, I’d wake up in the middle of the night to Arnie screaming, “Amanda! Amanda!”
Whenever I see a bottle of Hot Damn (cinnamon liqueur), I think of my former step-brother. He always had a bottle hidden on the roof of my dad’s house, and whenever we were left home alone, we’d climb onto the roof from his bedroom window, drink Hot Damn, and smoke cigarettes.
I fucking despise the band KISS, but I love the movie, “Detroit Rock City.”
Once, I forgot how to spell of. O-F. That’s just fucking weird. O-F. How is that even a word?
When I was little girl, I thought everyone’s surname was unique–like no one could have the same name unless they were family. For years, I thought the local news anchor, Bill Harris, was related to my mom’s best friend, Deanna Harris. Turns out, I was wrong.
My late Uncle Mike looked like Hulk Hogan (to me). When I was little, I thought Uncle Mike was in fact, Hulk Hogan. I told the kids in my kindergarten class that I was related to Hulk Hogan.
Speaking of kindergarten, there was a girl in my class named Amy Ballser. Ballser. Bahahahahahahaha!
Come on. Ballser. Balls. Hahahahahaha!
Why are testicles called balls? Balls bounce. Do testicles bounce? I don’t think so. But what do I really know about balls? I don’t have balls, literally speaking. Figuratively, mine are big, brass badasses.
I wish more people knew that frowning uses more muscles than smiling does, and tried their best to spread happiness, rather than misery.
Sometimes I wish I were cold, because everything touches me, and a lot of times it hurts.