Uh, HI. Something had to happen to rid us all of the White Page of Website Emptiness and Sorrow, and seeing as I am the only one who can actually do anything about that, I figured I’d better step to the plate and all the rest. So, hello! I HAVE NOTHING INTERESTING TO SAY.
I really don’t. It is sad. Basically, the gist of it is as follows, in list form:
1. This website is, apparently, very ill. See the comments thing? See how it says zero even though it is probably lying to us all? Yeah. Well, this seems to be the first step in a path towards Total Death, and other odd things are happening, as well. Like old entries reopening themselves and getting filled with forty-two thousand spam comments offering everything from Jessica Simpson lyrics to Exxxtra HARD VIAG-ARA FOR THE LADIES. I spent AN HOUR of my life, time that could have been spent drinking or shopping or kissing, deleting those stupid comments. My website is haunted.
Miss Pretty AB is having to redo the whole site, because the problem is serious, and when she started talking about it, I just put my hands over my ears and wailed, because I do not understand anything about my website. I understand nothing at all about my website. I know that I write on it, and then I say the magic words and do a little dance to the mystic gods of the Smart Box, and then my words are broadcast out over the land and take up residence in your brains. And for that, Y’ALL, I AM SORRY. Sometimes my words are really, really dumb, and now you’re stuck with them in your brain cells. An example of words that are dumb would include, oh, I don’t know, possibly THESE WORDS THAT YOU ARE READING RIGHT NOW. These words are totally dumb, but I can’t fully be blamed, because of thing number two, which is:
2. I poisoned myself with spaghetti. Because I am a total asshole. Please allow me to explain.
See, last year, my doctor told me that I am allergic to beef, to which I said, “…?” And then I promptly ignored him completely, and really very little has happened on that front. Except for sometimes, beef gets me, and it turns my body inside out in the style of reversible loungewear, and this is what my own fucking spaghetti did to me. So I had to stay home and be sick yesterday, and now I am on kind of an interesting mix of prescribed pharmaceutical products plus coffee, and I am not thinking…uh, clearly. Not so clearly right now. I am kind of confused. For proof of my confusion, I offer you:
3. Thing number three. This really is neither here nor there, but remember when we were talking about brain cells a little while ago in earlier paragraphs that I typed? And also we talked about how sometimes stupid things (see: this entry) get all stuck in them? Well. That is about to be relevant, when I get done telling this long-ass story:
So, this weekend, Timmy and Dukay and I went to my parents’ lakehouse to visit. And drink. And make important discoveries.
You may recall that the last time Dukay and Timmy and I went to my parents’ lakehouse, we ended up in a long, laborious discussion about the career of Matthew Sweet, which somehow led to the discovery that the people who work at 411 do not have mouses on their computers. This time, the biggest discovery of the weekend turned out to be that Dukay, despite years of systematically destroying his brain cells (see? I can bring it all together), somehow has managed to retain the entire McDonald’s rap song (circa 1987 or something) in his oversized noggin.
Now. Y’all! Do you remember that? I kind of did, but now that I have heard it, oh, SEVEN HUNDRED TIMES, I can recall it specifically. It is as follows:
I’d like a Big Mac,
A Quarter-Pounder with some cheese,
A Happy Meal.
Tasty Golden French Fries,
Regular or Larger Size,
And Salads: Chef or Garden,
Or a Chicken Salad Oriental.
Big Big Breakfast,
Hot Hot Cakes,
Bacon, Egg and Cheese,
Hash Browns too.
And for Dessert
Hot Apple Pies,
A Soft-Serve Cone,
Three kinds of shakes,
And Chocolatey Chip Cookies.
And to drink a Coca-Cola,
Diet Coke, and Orange Drink,
A Sprite and Coffee, Decaf too,
A lowfat milk, also an Orange Juice.
I love McDonalds.
Good Time Great Taste,
and I get this all at one place.
And…I don’t know. LET’S TALK ABOUT THIS! First, I have lots of questions. Like, why come did they say “Hot Apple Pies” and try to rhyme that with “varieties”? Those words only rhyme if you pronounce varieties as variet-EYES, but that is about fourteen levels of wrong.
And what makes the chocolatey chip cookies so…chocolatey? Why can’t they just be chocolate chip cookies? Because they really didn’t need that extra syllable there.
Such questions kept us occupied for literally tens of minutes! I am telling you. TENS. Of minutes.
But anyway. So at some point, it was determined that Dukay possessed this, uh…knowledge, which entertained Timmy and me to no end, so at about two in the morning, we decided that KNOW WHAT A GOOD PLAN WOULD BE? To call people we knew and leave them the entire McDonald’s menu on their voicemails. In rap form. Sorry, Ziz!
And, that is how brain cells and a twenty-eight year old attorney making prank calls sort of come together in one story. A story that, upon rereading, does not even make any sense. People, I am absolutely high right now. CAN YOU TELL?
Which brings us to thing number four:
4. This weekend, when we were not singing the McDonald’s song, I began to compile a list of Things I Will Never Be Able To Do. But, because this whole entry is already a list, and it is weird to have another list inside of a list AND OH TOO MANY LISTS, and my brain might just pop from all the listiness, I am just going to bullet some of the finer points. I hereby resign myself to the fact that I will never, ever be able to:
– Fold a fitted sheet;
– Drive a car with a manual transmission (I have TRIED, LORD HAVE I TRIED);
– Cut my dogs’ fingernails;
– Update a website with any degree of regularity (maybe you noticed this);
– Stop myself from gleefully watching movies with titles that rhyme with, I don’t know, something like “Flirteen Going On Shirty”;
– Prevent self from crying at same, because, magic dust! and happiness;
– Balance a checkbook, thanks to the life-giving invention known as the “debit card”;
– String two coherent thoughts together when I am on any kind of drug whatsoever, including just Tylenol, because it takes NOTHING to get me looped, apparently; and
– Keep my cell phone charged.
And that is all. I mean, there were more, but I forget them now. Believe me, there’s TONS of shit I can’t do! “Make sense” comes to mind at the moment. “Speak and type coherently” is also occurring to me.
And…you know, that is all I have for you: the deluded, rambling rants of a woman on a variety of legal substances. There is no rhyme or reason. There is no theme here! This entry is the equivalent of a brain fart on crack, and I am just trying to make it through the day, dammit.
But it’s better than the blank screen, I suppose. Still, with God as my witness, I promise you, internet, that I will NEVER EAT SPAGHETTI AGAIN.