What The Hell Was I Thinking?

You ever have those crazy moments where for a split second you think the most ridiculous thought ever, and then immediately realize you are retarded and should probably crawl back into bed?

For example: you see someone walking up the street from some distance away and think to yourself, "Hey, that looks like [friend]." So you study the person as they walk closer and suddenly realize that while your friend is a tall, balding skinny 30-year-old white guy, the person approaching you is a 65-year-old Asian man with a hunchback.

You know what I mean? Like there is no alternate universe that exists in which there lies the remotest possibility that this person in any way resembles the person you thought it was, only moments ago. No matter how many times Bakula Quantam Leaps his way through a rip in the space-time continuum, this is an outcome which is less probable than my ability to name a single Oak Ridge Boy. Unpossible.

Like today, I am running around on zero sleep and having moments of bewildering insanity. The frustrating kind. The kind that makes you spend 10 minutes looking for your glasses until you realize you are already wearing them.

Here's what I did today.
I am leaning against my car, having a smoke. I look down the street to the area where I usually park. I see a car, not much like my own in shape or style, but vaguely resembling mine in color. A woman is looking into the window of that car. A look of concern clouds my face, and I think to myself, "Hey! What's that bitch doing nosing around my car?!" Then a second passes and I realize, "Oh, that's not my car. That doesn't even look like my car. That is probably HER car. And oh yeah, I'm currently leaning against my own car." Remember? From the beginning of the paragraph?

Yeah.

My point is: I am really tired.

You like sex. Okay. I get it.

KP: Don't you think this whole trend of girls writing frankly about sex is getting a little tired?
Me: OMG - YES! I'm glad I wasn't the only one to notice. Seems like every other day some lady writer wants to tell the world how awesome she is at sucking dicks. I get it. We're impressed. You've shocked the prudes and intrigued the dudes. Mission accomplished. Now try writing something that isn't (A) Boring, (B) Overdone and (C) Probably a lie.

KP: Don't you have something about blowjobs in your Kittenpants bio?
Me: Okay, yes. But I wrote that five years ago before every vagina-with-a-typewriter came along and decided to do the same.

KP: So you don't like that women write about sex, or you're mad that they're stepping onto your turf?
ME: No, no. It's not my turf. Someone else claimed this turf long before me.

KP: But some people would consider you to have a sexual tone to your writing.
ME: Whatever. I guess it's part of my sense of humor. I make an occasional joke about BJs. I don't write essays and books about fellatio-as-an-art form, or anything.

KP: Why not?
ME: Are you paying attention? Because it's done. It's over. It's boring and doesn't impress anyone anymore. Maybe women think they need to write about sex in order to gain any sort of notoriety. I disagree. I admire people for being sexually frank, but if you're not offering anything new to the conversation--any sort of new perspective, then what's the point. Remember when Will and Grace came on the air and got all kinds of attention? Then the other networks tried to come up with copycat shows. So they're like, "Hey! It's John Goodman. Remember? From Roseanne. And he's gay!! Isn't that funny? Huh? He's GAY! Ha ha ha ha ha! Get it?"

Only they didn't get it because it wasn't funny. Just being gay isn't funny. You have to be funny first, then gay. Or something.

KP: I don't watch Will and Grace.
ME: (Sigh...) I know. Okay, listen. You know how you want to give Margaret Cho some sort of props but every time you watch her stand up you are incredulous that anyone is laughing?

KP: Yes! Because--
ME: Because all she does is mention something nostalgic and the audience laughs their asses off. Like she says, "I was watching Three's Company. Remember Three's Company?!!!" And then everyone dies laughing.

KP: I know!! What the fuck? Yes I remember Three's Company. And...?!
ME: Right. Well it's sort of like that. Like now all these women are like, "HEY I WROTE THIS ARTICLE ABOUT BLOW JOBS!" and then people go "Aw no you di-int!! Girl! You are SASSY!" And then everyone takes turns patting each other on the back until eventually, someone's hand penetrates someone else's rib cage resulting in some sort of tragic, painful death.

Well, that's how it happens when I imagine it, anyway.

KP: I guess you're right. It is really getting tired. Like making fun of hipsters, or "clever" haikus, or putting a question mark after "The End." Or interviewing yourself. HA! HA! What a stupid and pointless waste of time. Hilarious.
ME: Exactly.

The End?
***

This is what it's like to live inside my brain.

Asleep Me is Even More Crazy

Last night I had a dream that I was rescuing dogs from the ocean. 24 dogs, in all. They were having trouble swimming, which is retarded because most dogs are stronger swimmers than me. But whatever, it was a good dream. I had lots of dogs and I lived by the beach.

Then later in the dream I was driving home and saw a guy with a big sign on the side of the road. The sign said "THINGS TO DO: 77 CENTS" (only he used the cents symbol). The guy was a real person in real life who I've never met before, so it's weird that he was in my dream. Regardless, I thought it was the best sign in the whole world, and applauded his efforts, from concept to execution.

Things to do: 77 Cents. That's fucking brilliant.

From now on, if you give me 77 cents, I will give you something to do. It'll be my new company. And when I make my fortune, 77-cents-at-a-time, and I go on some talk show for an interview, I'll tell Matt Lauer, "It was just this idea I dreamed up one night." And then I will throw my drink in Matt Lauer's face.

I'm not a big fan, Lauer.

The People That You Meet

Sometimes I am relieved to find I am not an actual crazy person. Today a person came in my store and did a "Meatwad" impression for 10 minutes, then took off his shirt and asked me to pin the bottom of it for him. He then went up the street to Fancy and told Sally he was a psychic who gets no respect from other area psychics because he is THAT good.

Yesterday someone emailed me the following:

"...From the depth and range of your words, I doubt anyone really "knows" you. Not your mother, or father, even you are unsure. However, I know some things. I know you are scared of poorly lit, dead end streets. I know your nightmare is a gianormous, empty, dusty, dark rundown drive-in where you're all alone yelling "..is anybody here" into a rising wind. I know that you worry that one day you will suddenly look up and find yourself abandoned in your sandbox..."

And then there's the random "poop on your doorstep" incidents.

Sometimes I am afraid to leave the house.

Ciabatta is the new Chipotle

These are words and phrases that I hate:

Ciabatta
Chipotle
Tune (as in "Let's play some tunes, dude!")
'Rents (short for "parents")
"Chillin' like (anything that rhymes with chillin')"
Gig


If you say these in my presence I will shoot hate bolts into your skull with my wicked telekinetic powers. Also, I will neither buy you a drink, nor make out with you in the alley*.

Just something to consider.

*unless you are hot.

Shitty Day

I just wanted to share my shitty morning with you. I came in to open the store at 11. Its Saturday. It's gorgeous out. And someone had left poop on the entranceway to the store.

Poop. For real.

So I did the following things in this order:

1. Cleaned up the poop with a paper towel and a mop
2. Barfed in the entranceway where the poop used to be.
3. Cleaned up my barf with a paper towel and a mop
4. Washed my hands for 25 minutes.
5. Made coffee

The coffee is delicious.