Posts tagged: dumbblonde
-Me. On crack too much Starbucks.
PS. It is only Tuesday. Yay…
As I have been house-sitting this entire week, I have been thrust into the world of Watering. This chapter of my pre-housewife life has left me scratching my head even more than usual.
- I can’t tell the difference between weeds and plants, so I water everything equally. I will not apologize for this. It is the most responsible solution to the conundrum that I can dream up.
- To water trees, or not to water trees? I don’t know the answer to this, so I water the medium sized ones and leave the Amazonians to fend for themselves.
- Turns out, bugs are waterproof. No matter how much I spray them with the hose set to Jet, they seem to thrive! As a speculative future-gardener, this concerns me.
Apparently I can’t tell the difference between cabbage and lettuce.
Ever since I found a spider the size of my Jetta running around a dirty cereal bowl ten minutes ago, my eternal fear of spiders has extended and now includes the act of doing the dishes.
I just plugged my ear buds into the computer and sat here, mystified for at least 2 minutes, scratching my head with one hand and holding my purple iPod with the other because I couldn’t hear the Pink Floyd purportedly coming out of it? “Hey you brunette in the blue getting ornery getting old can you hear me?” No David Gilmour I can’t hear you what is happening to me. :(
Melted a spatula.
That’s what I get for being cocky near the stove!
Ever since I walked through a sliding screen door, I get anxious around the clean glass doors throughout this university. Most of them are held open with door-stops and that’s the problem—I’ve become brainwashed into trusting clear thresholds. In my head I see images of my face bouncing off the glass-plated death-trap and into a black hole of nose-bleeds while people around me high five one another and post my trauma on YouTube. I can just see it now…
I recently burned Ramen. Charred.
Again with the brilliance.
Just lit my tea on fire.
Not the tiny envelope or the liquid in my glass, but the paper on the end of the string.
I lit it on fire.
Because I’m smart.
Does “desecrated” always mean “pooped on”?
I may be a lover of words, but sometimes I’m too lazy mid-paper to summon the Interweb’s big thesaurus, or too sick of writing about the ethics of Michael Born and Stern-TV to even care. Maybe my term paper will feature ill-conceived nods to pooping. Maybe it won’t! Maybe go jump off a bridge, pages one through ten. You were a mistake.
UPDATE: It has now occured to me that desecrated and defecated are two different words. At age 23, why do I confuse these? Isn’t there a less-embarrassing pair of words for me to use interchangeably, like effect and affect? Damn you Mrs. Pospichil, for imparting mnemonic devices on me my senior year.
In conclusion, to defecate means “to poop”; it is not in my term paper.
I’m sorry I posted this nonsense on the Internet where it will stay for all eternity. I’m even more sorry that some people spent in upwards of 40 seconds reading it.
Sorry it just occurred to me that Scott Baio is not Tony Danza and vice versa.
…when tragedy struck in the laundry room. I had just selected my preferred water temperature when Cory’s washing machine broke. After hundreds of seconds of frantic investigating, I surrendered all hope and summoned Cory to the basement. I feigned optomism as he charged down the stairs but inside I couldn’t believe that I had broken his $70 second-hand appliance.
Then he tapped the tiny reset button on the electrical outlet and water started whirring about.
Men. Can’t live with ‘em; can’t understand electricity without ‘em.
