Random Thoughts Warning: Rambling incoherence ahead.

I’m not doing very well emotionally at the moment, so bear with me while I spew verbal diarrhea all over the Interwebz that I can’t ever take back and will haunt me till I die. (Told you I wasn’t doing well emotionally.)

Because everything is more emotionally intense in Spanish. I mean Portuguese. Whatever. De nada.

1. I’ve come to the realization that I can’t stand awkward silences. I knew this before on a subconscious level, obviously, because I live with myself (duh), but recently it’s really hit me. I will say anything rather than deal with awkward silence. I will even find sexual innuendo in my own comments as I speak, then suddenly backpedal, clarify that I “didn’t mean it THAT way,” then tell myself to stop talking. As in, “I’ll stop talking now.” I’ve decided that this habit will either get me 1. locked up in a looney bin, or 2. my own HBO special. I’m voting for #2.

2. Skin cancer aside (wow, what a way to start a sentence), tanning beds are a bad idea. I know this from unfortunate, recent experience. So, the story goes something like this: back in March, I found a cheap Groupon for 3 visits to a posh tanning salon nearby and decided to buy it. Look, I’m pasty and an Arab. It’s criminal. It’s not a White person pasty—it’s a yellowish, “olive-complected” pasty, which, at its worst looks like a bad case of jaundice. Anyway, I bought the Groupon, feeling very proud and sneaky, because I knew that 3 visits was enough to get me a golden, “I’ve been frolicking on a beach all spring” tan (again, I’m an Arab. I spend 30 minutes in the sun and get flip-flop tan lines).

 

Yes. Well. Here’s the thing: The Groupon was cheap for a reason—it got me the bargain basement tanning bed. You know, the George Foreman Grill of tanning beds. Now, I’ve seen people with bad “tanning bed” tans, and I was smart enough to move around some and not to get those tan lines at my armpits. What I didn’t anticipate were the butt crack tan lines.*

You totally thought I made that up, didn’t you? Google it, you guys. It’s hilarious. And sad. And my God, I can’t stop laughing at myself in the mirror. WTF. No g-strings for me. Jesus. (That was sarcasm, btw. I don’t wear g-strings. Anyone who knows me well is dying of laughter right now).

3. Today I read an article about a fitness blogger who was killed by defective can of whipped cream that exploded, hit her in the thorax, and sent her into cardiac arrest. And see, it’s shit like that, you guys, that makes me question the existence of God, and the meaning of life, and MY GOD what’s the point when any one of us can die in the prime of life because of a FUCKING can of whipped cream?**

4. Why does the name “Dick” still exist? We don’t live in the 50s. The name is no longer acceptable. It’s fraught with fucking peril. I actually have a hard time calling people named “Dick” by their names. Or using their name in a sentence without hesitating, stammering, or questioning the double meaning in what I’m saying. For instance, just the other day I almost asked a female friend, “Have you ever worked with Dick before?” I stopped mid-sentence and re-assessed what I was going to say. SHIT. Conversation should not be this much work, people.

*Note: I tried to find a funny image of “butt tan lines” but only came across porn. Apparently, bad tan lines are hilarious in that industry. HA.

**I have not missed the irony here, btw. I’m going with, “It was light whipped cream.”

I’m calling my shrink tomorrow morning. STAT.

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