Premature Ejac..err... Peaking...err...Over before it begins?

Everybody knows that one person that they look at and think:

'You know, they're so great; they just haven't hit their stride yet. They'll be awesome in a few years.'

Sadly this isn't me. I totally peaked early. Got everything that needed doing out of the way by the time I was ten and now I'm just scrambling to not go sliding down the backside of the hill on my face and embarrass myself.

Seriously, my most prodigious moments were when I colored on my Cabbage Patch Kids with crayons because they needed makeup; which really pissed my parents off at first. Then they realized how brilliant I was because I colored them in the right spots where makeup would be. It was all sweetness and light then. I was no longer a 'smart ass' but a 'creative and precocious smart ass.' This occurred all over again when I shaved Barbie's head because she had 'leukemia.'  

What? I've been a science nerd my whole life. 

My mom still tells those stories to strangers. We meet new people and she says: 'Here's my beautiful, smart daughter. She's so smart! She shaved her Barbie's head when she was 6 and proclaimed she had leukemia.' At which point, people look at me like I'm a freak. Then comes the perfunctory, 'Awwww. What a smart little girl!' Except that now I'm almost thirty and they wonder what in the hell went wrong? 

One of these days I'm going to prove how smart I am by calculating just how many brain cells Jose Cuervo has consumed right there on the spot. I'll plot it out mathematically and take into account the change in brain cell number with respect to time and they'll be astounded. Or they'll call me an AA sponsor. All I'm saying is that it's starting to get a smidge embarrassing. It's not ever 'Here's my beautiful, smart daughter. She's curing cancer and saving the lives of starving African children!' The closest we'll ever get to that is when she says 'Here's my beautiful, smart daughter. She could have went to medical school but she was too boy crazy.'

Let's not even get her started on that topic. Each holiday that goes by is even more depressing than the last because my entire family lines up by the door to see if I waltz in with a man. I figure if I give it a few more years I could show up with an albino circus dwarf and they would cheer. Only because he has penis. I give it until I'm 35 and then I figure I can have an illegitimate child without any shame or guilt from my family. They'll just be grateful that someone wanted to sleep with me at all. By the time I'm 40 my aunt will be hiding behind the door with the electric cord so my mom can go to work with the turkey baster. Men have it so easy. 

So there really is no hope at all for me. Little do they know that I met my soulmate when I was 7. He was the biggest black and white tomcat you've ever seen and I carried him around like a rag doll. Pea Pie (I don't know. I was an odd child.) was the only man to ever see and proclaim me his, unapologetically. True to form with every other man in my life, he disappeared one day to leave me stammering and quaking in his absence. I've been fucked up as a football bat ever since. 

When I was young I was motivated. Now I'm just lazy. When I was young I was full of optimism and joy. Now I'm just lazy. 

So if you'd please move a little to the left, you're in my path and the rock is going to roll back down this track in a few minutes.

Immersing Yourself in All Aspects of the Situation

The great thing about living in the South is sleeping with your windows open. Well, except in the winter, and the summer too, when it gets down to 95 with 98% humidity, but otherwise it's quite lovely to lie in your bed with the windows open.

It often causes a body to become introspective of sorts. That is until introspection becomes an abutment on the highway of self pity travelling to the city of self loathing.

Sooo, you watch TV. Do you know that I feel guilty about getting rid of my old clunky tv (that still works) for a newer skinnier model? I can totally justify it. I simply do not have room for the old clunky one. . .but alas. It's still here, in a chair, in the middle of my room because I don't have anything to put it on, because it's old and clunky.

But I digress.

I was watching Sex and the City and got tired of that because really, they put SJP in some crazy getups. I mean some of them are awesome, but she for serious had a bedazzled fanny pack on, at which point I physically said 'No more.' out loud and cut off the DVD player. Whereupon I found the late night self help guru.

Whose instructions are 'to immerse yourself in all aspects of the situation.' Sure thing gramps. Why don't you immerse yourself back into your prune juice and let me know if you want to be in all aspects of that situation? It sounds unnessecary to me. Doesn't he understand that immersing myself in all aspects of my situation is the reason why I turned on the dad-blamedt TV to begin with? I was so looking forward to not thinking about my inadequacies to do differential equations and derive permeability equations with respect to time, and also not thinking about having my motivation to work harder at the gym show up mid-workout and make me feel like shit even harder because I was finally gung-ho about half-assing it, and definitely not thinking about immersing myself in the half-eaten, hidden situation of Doritos that my bff has in the cabinet in the kitchen, which is a whole 10 ft away from my head, that I physically have to restrain myself from ravaging.

Seriously, this is why I drink. So I can avoid the aspects of my situation and immerse myself into the bottom of the gin bottle. It's not that I drink to forget; I drink so I can avoid all the aspects of my situation. And if I happen to be having a particularly happy situation with which I would like to be immersed. . .What's a little vodka besides a handy lubricant into that roiling vat of aspects?

An Open Letter to the Monkeys in the Parking Operations Jungle/Office

Attention Monkeys,

Yoo hoo! Over here. Lookie, it's a banana. Do you want the banana? Look, here. Here!

Damnit! You people really are monkeys. Quit picking your god-blessed nose!

Listen I got an email from the matriarch of your living group (I'm not sure what a group of monkeys are called. Geese congegrate in gaggles and Rhinos hang in out crashes but Monkeys?) saying that my last bus pass purchase was not debited from my pay check last month. For some reason,

Could you put down the toy car? Please? I'm talking here.

She seems to think that it should be compounded with this month's purchase and debited twice from this month's check. I'm not sure why the burden of your office to not do a satisfactory job lies on my head.

Do not climb on my head. Do not do it! Don't do it! NO!

As I was saying, I came over and filled out my paperwork correctly and accurately. I think that when I signed the form authorizing the payroll debit that it was assumed that the debit would be in a timely manner, and now that timely manner has passed. So, I do not feel as it is my responsibility to pay the past due debit. Yes, I do have my receipt and it indicates a pass for the month of September and that the debit will come out of the September pay check, which it did not. Need I remind you?

Did you just hurl poop at me? Bitch! (Why am I arguing with a monkey?)

Just try and listen. Look, over here. Back over here. Yes that's a happy monkey. No, not that happy. Quit spanking Bob.

You know what? Nevermind. I'm leaving. Do what you want. You're going to anyway. That's why they established a gang of monkeys in the Parking Operations office. So that no one has any recourse in the pursuit of their complaints.

Do me a favor will you? Do you think you could talk to the warthogs over in library sciences about my fines?

Sincerely,
Anna, The Small & Docile Reptile Hunter, Gray

Falling Down is Overrated

I have fallen down 4 times within the last week. All in painfully public places.

It's as if the cacophony of my emotional life is affecting the timbre of my gait. (I know that doesn't make any sense as cacophony and timbre are aural words and falling down is an often painful tactile experience but what's a little sensory obfuscation once in a while?) Or I'm just a klutz. Or maybe I'm a mess. It's like that Lady Gaga song 'She looks good but her boyfriend says: She's a mess.' Except that I have no boyfriend, which is probably a good thing for me right now.

This weekend was very interesting and probably one of the better ones I've had in a while; I think I got to see everyone that I currently love. Including sexpot neighbor. (Not that I love him or anything but it's always nice to see him, because he's pretty. It's kind of like my watch, I love looking at my watch because it's shiny and awesome.) I also saw 'He Who Must Not Be Named' and no it wasn't Voldemort, but Dipshit, which is why I'm grateful I don't have a boyfriend because I remember what it was like having a boyfriend like Dipshit who sucks at life even worse than I do which is pathetic. (God, it's amazing how unattractive someone becomes because their personality sucks.) Yes, we don't refer to Dipshit by name as I'm still currently angry that we're sharing the same atmosphere but that would require one of us to shuffle off this mortal coil and I'm not sure that I hate him That much. Close, but still...I'm trying to be an adult about all of this. Anyways, off to my bar I go and guess who's there?

Personally I'm somewhat proud of myself. The last time I saw him I was completely unprepared as I had just left the gym and Spruce Street was the last place I ever imagined seeing him, and do you know that this Asshat had the gall to try and speak to me? Who is he kidding? But this time I didn't make eye contact nor did I stress and hyperventilate. Okay maybe a little and I did try to sneak out the back door of the bar. I was prevented in this by my bff who informed the watching parties that we/I are/am 'VIP Motha Fucka' as we walked past him and his posse. She then chided me that I shouldn't be the one slinking around avoiding eye contact. As always, She's right about this too.

So oddly enough I'm strangely confident and have a renewed sense of awesomeness which I like to imagine never quite left but was there all along.


I haven't fallen down lately either.

But that may be because my unknown degenerative neuromuscular disease went away?

Faking It Until I Make It

Lately, I've been in a shit mood. Or so I'm told. I cannot refute or deny this fact as my modus operandi is generally a nasty, cynical, sarcastic, sour outlook on life. But don't get me wrong, I consider myself a realistic person. My evaluative powers are on point, I just suck at life. Duh.

For example, have I cured cancer? Rid the world of malaria and polio? Saved the tigers from being hunted down and turned into soup? Found a clean, cheap renewable energy source?

No. I haven't.

Maybe you're saying to yourself, 'Anna, those are very lofty goals. Maybe you need to be more realistic. Find smaller goals that you can accomplish within a reasonable time frame.'

Okay. How's this:

Have I seen the hot neighbor sans vetements yet? No, but I'm halfway there. Can I use a ruler to accurately measure things? Apparently I can only get two sides done, the third is a crap shoot. This is the email I got in response to my measurements earlier today:

"Can I check the 3.5 inches? That seems really small."

Yes, it is indeed really small. Really, really small. Be my guest.


BWAAA HAA HAAAAAA

When your lips are all tingly. . .

My lips are all tingly and I really wish I could say that it's because I was rubbing my super hot football playing boyfriend's leg with Ben Gay when things got a little kinky and went south, if you catch my drift, but I cannot say that's why my lips are indeed tingly. My lips are tingly because I hate the treadmill.

No, it's not like that time I had that stroke in spin class from screaming at that dumb bitch who insisted on talking to me throughout the entire class even though she showed up 20 minutes late and then proceeded to mock my poor, suffering uterus (What? I'm on the rag.) from the next bike over thus sending me into a blind rage where upon I questioned my entire existence and bled from both eyes. My lips were never really tingled during that debacle.

It's because I'm stupid. I came home from dinner with my mom and went directly to doing my homework after a mini-tantrum, but that was because my poor momma simply cannot drive. So I tried and tried and tried. For a solid two hours I tried, and the only successful thing I managed to get done was logic myself in circles for an hour and fourty-five minutes and spent the other fifteen minutes deciding I hate science. Then I decided to go for a run at the gym. Needless to say 6 months of spin class has obviously spoiled me and after about 2 miles my right quad is sc-Reaming at me. At which point I got on the bike and spun it out, which I'm honestly surprised that it actually worked but Hot Dog! It does!

Getting to my tingly lips, after my shower and hair masque I decide to put some bio freeze on my quad because I'm doing double spin tomorrow and I need it to be healthy. And like a dumb ass did I wash my hands before I put the vasoline on my lips?

Hell no.

So now my lips are tingly. But they do have a rather refreshing menthol smell.

No, no. Not that jar of jelly. That's your crazy cousin Lenny.

Apparently the newest green trend in post-death preparation and storage is called aquamation.

Yes, they take your favorite relative and sit them in a vat of fat reducing potassium hydroxide for 4 hours and then pour out Uncle Stan's viscera and munch up his now soft gelatinized bones and return them to you. (They recommend your loved one being dead before this occurs as I imagine it's probably pretty painful.) The article I read then went on to describe that the remaining potash hash could be used as fertilizer. Yes, this is a brilliant plan. I want my applesauce to taste like dead hippies.

Obviously our mates down in Aussie-ville have gone off the deep end and are now worried that they're going to run out of room to put dead people. Um, Hello. . .The Outback? It's a vast, barren wasteland where nothing will grow but rabbits. So barren that less than 10% of the Australian population lives in the Outback. It's essentially a giant collection pit for rabbit pellets and dead Australians.

I'm not sure what's wrong with dumping people in a pine box in a hole with a marble slab set on top of it. I get that coffins now-a-days are the renovated backseats of the muscles cars from the 70's and are plush and posh and all. Honestly, I would just like someone to shove me in a pine box and plunk me in a hole unceremoniously. If a pine box made by felons is good enough for Billy Graham and his wife, then who am I to demand that I require a soft silk lining to ease my transition into the afterlife? I think it's odd that even in death we feel that we must overcompensate.

And make sure you get me in the ground the next day. None of this waiting and waffling and 900 visitations and crap. I'm dead. I'm gone. Get it over with so everyone can eat and get on with their lives.

But make sure they serve barbecue. I really like barbecue.