He was completely nonplussed.
2006-03-27, 2:09 p.m.
Don’t you want one of these? Look down the page and find the one called Compact Kitchen. Is that a refrigerator? How could you not want one? Where would you have this? All I can think of is in your prison cell. Wouldn’t a tiny Compact Kitchen come in handy in prison? If I ever go to prison for being intoxicated in a bar in Texas, won’t you please all chip in and get me one?
I hope when I go to prison, that it’s like that movie with Ashley Judd – what was it? – where you fight those bitches off your first night, using your mad defensive skillz and a club cleverly devised from your bed frame, and from then on, because you have proven yourself to be worthy, it’s all camaraderie and working in the beauty shop, didding each other’s hair. And cooking in my Compact Kitchen for all my bitches. Look at that tiny little sink!
I can’t wait.****
I confessed to DW about this here journal, and his reaction was just like I expected.
Him: What do you write about?
Me: You. And anything that’s funny.
Him: Do people read it?
Me: Some. A few.
Him: Can I read it?
Him: Why not?
Me: Because I’ll change the way I write if I know you’re reading it.
Him: You’ll have to quit lying?
Him: So I can’t read it. Where is it?
Me: I’m not telling you.
He was completely underimpressed, and I think he has forgotten about it by now. Doesn’t the word “nonplussed” sound like it should mean underimpressed? I always think so, and I’m always tempted to use it that way, but I don’t because I know people would skewer me for it. Even Lil Guy knows the correct definition. But I think it that way, sometimes, secretly… (::whispering:: “He was completely nonplussed.”)****
After Friday’s experience with Hydroxycut Super Meth 1000, I have made a vow to eat three squares a day, much like one would in prison, but better. I…ew. I had two light beers and bar-fried mushrooms for dinner Friday night, junk food plus one way-too-big-meal Saturday afternoon, and by the time I went to bed Saturday night, I had yet another bout of extreme nausea accompanied by drool puddling in my mouth as I wondered whether I should lie very still, or make my way into the bathroom, to lay my head on the cool floor tile.
So the giddiness brought on by the Hydroxycut is good, but not worth the torn-up stomach you get out of it. It’s too tempting to eat only sporadically, and bad food at that, and yuck. Hrm. I’m feeling a little sick just thinking about it.
ENOUGH OF THE SICK TALK!****
Here’s something to make you sick. God. At the sports bar Friday night, Don was already there playing his nerd bar trivia game, and Snatchy showed up eventually, too. You know we’re all good friends now that we have Piper, one of Snatchy’s parents’ puppies, so when she shows up, we all talk like the good old friends we are
As I chatted with her about something, dogs or something, God, I don’t know – she’s really hard to have a conversation with – I caught a glimpse of Don smiling this simpering, silly smile that made my stomach travel up my throat into my head to say something like “gurp” right in my ear, and I swear, I could read his expression. It said “Oh goody. Now that Laura and Snatchy are friends, I can openly date Snatchy, and all my friends will be friends with each other, and all is right in this sad, little bar-oriented world that I have entered and can never exit unless I leave my liver as collateral.”
I took a picture of myself making that face, and when my cell phone and email decide to start freaking cooperating with each other, I’ll show you. Until then, just imagine. Pretend you are crying because you’re constipated, but then something makes you smile.
Anyway, I know what he was thinking, and if he thinks I’m going to socialize with Snatchy or even let her know where I live, he’s wrong wrong wrong.
Because whether we are getting along in public or not, she’s a raging out-of-control alcoholic whose alcohol-induced psychotic breaks and bad behavior are widely-known and well-documented, and this is a small town, and I do NOT need that train wreck in my life. We CHOOSE whether or not to allow train wrecks in, and I learned early on to choose NOT.
She’s not the fun kind of crazy, she’s the SCARY kind of crazy. No Train Wrecks Allowed.
I like to watch them from afar, so I can giggle and be judgmental, but I do not want to find myself a passenger on the Train Wreck Express. Because to take this metaphor just a little too far, once you get on, you can’t get off without jumping and losing, like a leg or your head or something. Yeah, that metaphor just petered right out, and rightly so. I squoze it so hard, it burst.
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