The appointment to determine whether or not I can get out of this brace is only twelve days away. No big deal, yeah? You can do anything for a mere twelve days, right? No biggie. It’s cool.
EXCEPT IT’S NOT COOL.
In twelve days it’ll be exactly six weeks in this asshole neck brace. I’ve been wearing the Strangle Choke model of Kill Me Now Neck Braces, Ltd. for over four weeks already.
SO TWELVE DAYS ISN’T LIKE A NORMAL TWELVE DAYS, YOU SEE.
I mean, it’s not like I’m in prime health, really just tip-top shape, just come from my regular afternoon meditation class, and was gently and politely asked to wear a hard cervical collar. For fun. Probably for a fundraiser. A something-a-thon. I mean, definitely a good cause thrown in there somewhere. Anyway. It’s not like that.
What I’m getting at is that zen, fundraising Sara can handle 12 days of whatever because, totally. But for Kill Me Now Sara, the actual number of days/hours/minutes she has left — well, she feels them eleventyhundredfold, at least. She’s ready to fucking snap, mostly because of the often heard (of late) phrase, (a jolly) “Only [number] more days!” Um, yeah, probably just don’t say that to me, ever, for crapsake. (I will fucking scratch your eyes out. I swear to god, I will kill you.)
Please do NOT attempt to adjust my perspective with reminders, and/or anecdotes of the “those-less-fortunate” variety. Do not expect to be able to reason with me about any of these self-absorbed melodramatics. I am beyond reason. I’m willfully unreasonable.
(I’m also probably just being a giant pussy about this because of the whole unreasonable thing. Maaaaaan, I hate that.)
But(!), could you please do your magic for twelve days, Internet? Just make it a little easier. OHGAHD, please.
What the shit do we do now?
I could never (ever) even wear a turtleneck before.
Oh, and this.
I’ve been thinking about how often I find myself thinking “Go fuck yourself.” while someone’s talking to me.
Maybe, whenever I’m thinking of saying it, I should just say it.
Of course, this would mean I’d be saying it more often.
But, I think that would be a good thing for everyone involved.
People deserve to know when it’s time for them to go fuck themselves.
If I don’t tell them, they’ll never know that they should be off somewhere, fucking themselves.
If they don’t know that they should be fucking themselves, then they’ll still be standing there, yapping about some bullshit that makes me think, “Go fuck yourself.”
I can commit to this. Yes. I’m willing to take one for the team and say what everyone else is thinking.
I’m not a hero. (Debatable.) I’m just a woman. A woman who doesn’t want that bullshit all up in her face. A woman who needs a motherfucker to pump those motherfucking brakes for a motherfucking minute, and listen carefully, because she only wants to have to say that shit one motherfucking time.
“Go fuck yourself.”
This is me. Solving some goddamn problems. You’re welcome.
A telemarketer just called to talk to me about my reward card points and a super special offer, just for me! His name was Brian. Kept him on the line for 10 minutes. Answered most of his questions with “What would YOU do?” for an answer, and made him answer me before he could ask me another question. Drilled him on other personal details because, I pointed out, he probably has a bunch of info about me on his screen, and fair is fair.
We talked about how I hate people and how he lives in Vegas but avoids the strip. (Everyone who lives there avoids it, so he said.) We both like to go to NYC, but only for a few days at a time or we get stabby, and we agree that La Guardia is gross. Like MRSA in the carpet gross. We both enjoy drinking in crappy hole-in-the-wall bars, and we both think that Orlando is the worst vacation destination if you hate people. He’s never been to Mount Rushmore (I have), but really likes New Orleans, so he hopes to get back there someday. We talked about what city we think has highest rate of meth labs (we agreed that it has to be somewhere in northern Wyoming), and what we might do if we ever went to Fargo, ND. (We both love the movie Fargo.)
He lives with his boyfriend of “a little over a year”, and his parents are still alive. By the time I got around to “So, Brian. Don’t be pissed, but I’m really not interested in any crappy timeshares.”, he just laughed and didn’t seem to care. He said that his supervisor was now standing behind him because he (Brian) had been cracking up for 10 minutes. I said, “You’re probably fucking fired, Brian.” Before I hung up, I told him that I’ll only talk to *him* if they ever call again, I’m not talking to some other phone jockey, so I told him, “Mark my file, muthafuckaaaaaaa!”
This has been a true story. You’re welcome.
Our neighbor is out with his snowblower. In the street. He’s snowblowing the street. He is clearly an overachiever. While I do not understand him, I support him 100%.
So, today we salute you, Mr. Overachiever Snowblower Guy.
Without you, we’d all be trapped in our driveways, not knowing when the giant snow plow trucks equipped with copious amounts of rock salt would free us (in 20 minutes).
Because somewhere, down the block, a hipster is mocking you, but will later respect you for clearing the road for his fixie.
Because you give us something to believe in, and that something is that crazy old dudes can clear an intersection like a motherfucker.
So crack open that bottle of brandy, Mr. Overachiever Snowblower Guy, and throw back those Old Fashioneds.
And remember, when someone says, “Did you see that car almost slide into that crazy old bastard with the snowblower?” You can say, “Get me another goddammed Old Fashioned.”