I made Chuck watch a chick flick, He’s Just Not That Into You, this weekend. Chuck was long overdue. He made me watch Rocky Balboa the next night as retaliation. I cannot lie: I liked Rocky better. There’s something about dead meat hanging from factory ceilings that lends a certain authenticity to a movie. Or maybe the dialogue was more plausible. Take your pick.
I need a Twitter tutorial. I don't understand it and so I've begun to mock it and follow people like Richard Simmons just because.
Sometimes I watch QVC just to see if the hosts can talk me into buying something horrible.
I’m thinking about getting lasik, but I’m scared they’re going to fuck it up and I’m going to have to wear glasses like this for the rest of my life:
I don’t understand how the bad vision gene survived the hunter-gatherer era. Just picture it: a loin-clothed man standing in a field squinting at what he thinks is a tree but what is actually a tiger. Nom, nom, nom. And a berry picker squinting at what she thinks are berries and nuts but what are actually mice pellets or worse, fish eyeballs. Her dinner mates would surely stone her. Or at least make her eat her own gatherings in the corner. I don’t know about you, but the last time I read about someone who’d eaten mice pellets and fish eyeballs, he didn’t make it.
I read that a woman ingests over six pounds of lipstick in her lifetime. I guess that explains the Berry Sexy hue to my toilet bowl.
Sometimes when I’m driving with Junior in the car I fantasize about passing our exit, calling Chuck and telling him, “Grab a bag and meet us in Oregon.” Why not? Surely it’s nicer than Mulletville. We could hike and bike and live in the woods. And I swear, I wouldn’t forage for dinner until I’ve had my vision corrected.
To visit the bodacious queen of Randomness and my partner in crime for skydiving with unicorns, check out this site.
