I Take Life Advice from Snack Foods

ME Overly simple thoughts , , , ,

I get it. I am fully aware that fortune cookies are not Chinese and have no cosmic pathway to a reincarnated Confucius. But I can’t help the eager feeling of cracking open the cookie and reading the words, “You can quit your job and still send your children to college.”

Instead, I get fortunes with this crap:

WTF***k, Fortune Cookie??? Who does this? on Twitpic

So when I got one last week that not only told me specifically WHAT to do but actually gave me a time line of when I should do it, I admit I thought it was a ransom note. (Author’s Note: how cool would that be? A book where the bad guys keep leaving instructions in fortune cookies? “Drop the bag with the sixteen million in unmarked bills in the garbage can inside the men’s room.” And then in a shocking plot twist the cookies get swapped in the restaurant and an elderly couple from New Jersey who HATE each other gets that fortune, and they each think the other spouse is plotting to kill them, only the real kidnapping victim is still chained to a steel I-beam on the 400th floor of an unfinished skyscraper in Dubai because no one put the money in the bathroom! Don’t steal that idea!)

But my fortune from last week told me to not only play the lottery, but to do it THAT weekend. Ordinarily I don’t fall for pranks from the Universe, but when everything kind of falls into place, you start to think just maybe you’re going to play the lottery AND win, and then you won’t have to be a teacher in a prison anymore. Our state doesn’t have a lottery, even though we have one of the worst educational funding records in the history of people going to school; BUT I happened to be going out of town THAT WEEKEND! I COULD PLAY THE LOTTERY IN THE STATE WHERE I WAS GOING!

You can guess how it turned out. Obviously, since I’m still sitting here writing blog posts hoping against hope that someone thinks I’m funny enough to want to publish all my drivel in one bound edition and make it available at your local bookstore, I probably didn’t win anything other than the receipt from buying the ticket.

Here’s the punch in the throat part: the cookie never promised that I was going to WIN the lottery, it just merely suggested that I PLAY the lottery. What a crumby joke. (See? Get it? I’m FREAKIN’ hilarious!)

The problem is you would think I would have learned my lesson after the state government of Georgia suckered me out of one dollar, but no. I had to go to McDonald’s on my lunch hour yesterday to play Monopoly. My co-worker and I had it all planned out. She was to get Park Place, I was going to get Boardwalk, and then we just wouldn’t come back from our lunch breaks. And I mean wouldn’t come back to civilization, not just to work. Sure enough, she gets to her pieces first (because I’m driving with two hands on the steering wheel) and she’s got Park Place! It was meant to be! The Universe is in line with our lust for financial security! I went ahead and veered the car towards the Interstate to head to Florida.

And then I got Baltic Avenue. Even my snack foods are underachievers. No one wants Baltic, even when playing ACTUAL Monopoly. The rent on it is like $3, and that’s if you own both purple properties AND you have nine hotels on it.

All of this has taught me a valuable lesson. If I can’t win the lottery when the cookie clearly told me I was going to, and if I can’t even win a free small French fries at McDonald’s, it’s a damn good thing I didn’t try to meet my husband on eHarmony. The one I ended up with wouldn’t have had a pulse.

I Would Be the Best Dictator EVER

ME Overly simple thoughts , ,

I want to have a country but I can never finish a whole one.

I have reached that point in my middle-aged life where I’m looking for a new challenge, something to break up the routine. It would be great if it could be something that I would actually have to plan for really far in advance, like a marathon or being a freelance wet-nurse, because then I’d have months of preparation and training ahead of me before I could actually attempt the goal. It would definitely kill time.

I’ve already run a bunch of marathons and done a few triathlons and I can’t actually lactate anymore even if I concentrate really hard, so I’ve kind of closed the door on a lot of goal-oriented pursuits. One thing that I haven’t gotten to do is stage a rebellion and overthrow a government in order to seize power and make the minions—I mean, millions—do my bidding. There’s a really long line of people in this country who’ve already filled out the necessary forms to try that here, so I’m putting out feelers on Twitter for a foreign country that really needs a good coup.

I have pretty high standards sometimes, so my dream country would be fairly tropical with a steady tourist-based economy and lots of time spent being fanned by cabana-people who bring me drinks. I also want a country that would never see this overthrow happening, since I’m not a large person and I don’t really have enough friends and co-workers who would want to participate in my uprising. Those jerks.

I have to say I would really be great at taking over a country and making everyone do things my way, and not just because my way makes sense all the time and not just on paper. I would be really awesome to the little people and only unleash my inner crazy on politicians, criminals, and boards of directors. Of ANYTHING. Schools and hospitals would have to play a big huge game of Brewster’s Millions where they see if they can possibly spend enough by the deadline in order to get even more money, and anything that provides cool interesting things to do for children or the elderly gets an automatic green light from the treasury. We’ll have to make some cutbacks to bankroll my game of Magical Fairy Wish Machine, so all funding for Viagra is hereby cut.

When I’m elected dictator, (by which I really mean, “When I take over your country,”) road construction cronies will have a time limit to complete highway construction! Pre-packaged food products with more than eight ingredients will be outlawed! People will stop wasting precious electricity with inflatable yard art! Football season will last exactly two weeks for college teams, three weeks for pros! Big Bird will have a permanent home on Sesame Street and Glenn Beck will have to hold a monthly telethon to get to stay on the air! The masses will both fear me and adore me!

Sorry, I got a bit woozy there. The extreme power went to my head for a second, but I’m okay now. I can’t lose it like that in front of my victims—I mean, constituents—ever again if I want to stay in a leadership position for long. I wouldn’t want to look crazy and find myself overthrown.

Even My Hallucinations Are Bored

ME Overly simple thoughts , , ,


I rarely take medications. It’s not a personal vendetta against the pharmaceutical companies, although ever since the invention of “restless legs syndrome” I’ve been kind of gun-shy on their ability to cure me of anything important. I’m also not a hippie or any kind of purist, because I’ve decided if you’re willing to put as many Doritos and marshmallows into your body as I do, a few pills aren’t going to hurt anything. I’m basically just freakishly healthy. Every time I actually get sick enough to see a doctor I end up having to fill out all new forms because their computers kicked me out of the system as probably being deceased.

That makes me pretty much a lightweight in the pill-popping department, which is probably why one of the three things I’m supposed to be taking for my neck is now in the bottom drawer of the bathroom vanity. I tried for several days to get used to the side effects, but I couldn’t do it anymore. The first problem was very real, vivid dreams, the kind that make you more tired in the morning than when you went to bed because your brain wouldn’t shut the hell up while you were trying to sleep. I distinctly remember waking up in the middle of the first night and walloping the crap out of my poor husband for stealing my artificial legs. What kind of A-hole steals a woman’s fake legs and hides them where she can’t get to them? (He’s just as confused by this as you are.)

The little pill deal-breaker for me was when I started hallucinating, which was clearly NOT written on the package insert as a possible side effect. I realize that hallucinations are ultimately a by-product of the owner’s subconscious, and therefore, things that are already manifested somehow in her brain. Sadly, my hallucinations were as boring as I am.

One of my first hallucinations was dryer lint all over my shirt. Jim Morrison gets to see rainbow colors and flying unicorns when he’s high, I just keep seeing fuzz all over my laundry. Another one was the feeling that my ponytail holder was sliding off my ponytail. That’ll keep those patients in rehab going nuts for hours. Possibly the only scary hallucination was a Jewish mother-in-law complaining about my cooking and my housekeeping. The joke’s on her, I don’t cook or clean and my husband’s not Jewish. I totally took her down with my verbal ninja skills.

Since the neck-curing pills aren’t working out I’ve decided to just keep leaning my head to one side like I’m deep in thought, so I’ve been practicing my pensive look. Unfortunately, the sideways head and the deep-in-thought face only convince people around me that I might be having a stroke. I don’t even want to think about the pills I’d have to take for that.

The Official Medical Diagnosis: Old Age

ME Overly simple thoughts

If Snooki can pull off a neck brace...oh wait, she can't.

I went to the doctor yesterday because I couldn’t stand the scary pain in my chest anymore. It was thrilling to see one car in the whole parking lot, but at the same time, wouldn’t you think there would be more patients wanting to see this person? Apparently he’s not in high demand, but that’s okay, all I really wanted out of this person was a signature on a prescription pad. If a vet could have made the pain stop, I would have gone there. So what if there’s a picture of a horse on the side of the bottle?

And even though there was no one waiting to see this doctor, I had to wait a horribly long time in the exam room for him to come in. That was their first mistake, because if you leave me in a room with lots of stuff and no surveillance cameras, I’m totally gonna mess with things. I actually started live-tweeting the appointment, complete with photos from my camera phone. The entire internet saw the blood stain dripping down the garbage can. The longer you leave me in there, the more stuff I can make up about you, Doctor. You’re only hurting yourself.

When he finally came in, he was a very nice elderly grandfatherly type. He told some jokes, asked me a lot of questions, moved my head around, poked my neck in places that made me bite the inside of my mouth, then rolled back on the chair (the one I had been spinning on earlier) and told me that I have arthritis. Of the neck. Nowhere else, just my neck.

My first thought was, “Aren’t I a little bit young for arthritis?” Actually, that was my second thought. My first thought was, “Jackpot! Handicapped parking tag!” THEN I thought, “Wait, I’m only thirty-eight years old.”

Now, I’m not sensitive about my age. I actually proudly tell my students that I was alive for the Vietnam War. I leave off the part about how we had the last soldier out of there before my little black umbilical stump had fallen off, but technically, it’s the truth. But I was really kind of weirded out because if I’m falling apart this badly at 38, sixty is going to be a real bitch-slap.

The hard part was telling my husband. Actually, that was kind of fun, too. I remember saying to him, “Now, before you even think about laughing at me, remember…you’re bald.” Husband was not laughing, he was actually very sweet. So sweet, in fact, that I felt a little bit bad telling him that the doctor said I have to see a massage therapist weekly and I can’t do any lifting at all for the rest of my life because it could make my head fall off. I think I mentioned I might have to quit my job, too, but once he started squinting his eyes at me I knew he wasn’t buying it. Especially when he said, “You went to that old man doctor again, didn’t you? The one who tells everyone whatever they want to hear?” I was busted. I tried playing it off by having a dementia attack, but sadly, I’m not quite old enough to pull that off. Maybe by next year.

Thirty Seconds of My Life I Wish I Had Back

ME Overly simple thoughts , , ,

Sister has a kickassedest purse...it's still a word.

I have the most kickassedest of computers (that is too a word, look it up). It is literally a mini laptop computer that actually fits inside my purse, and no, I don’t carry a duffel bag as a purse. Anymore. Not since my kids quit pooping themselves in public places. I have a typical grey leather, fairly utilitarian purse but with an edgy girly flair to it because it has several buckles. It’s like the purse a nun would carry if she were sent out undercover and needed to blend in with the rest of society, only she didn’t want to call attention to herself by carrying a big old flashy Satan purse.

So my awesome baby computer fits inside my perfectly normal purse, just in case I have a computer emergency. Believe it or not, even though I am not a high-priced attorney or a power player in the world of the stock exchange (I know so little about the stock exchange that I don’t even know if it’s supposed to be capitalized), every so often an English teacher/mommy/writer/novelist has a computer emergency, and I am ready like a Girl Scout.

But last night my baby computer turned on me. It was late, I’d only had a little bit to drink (way under the legal limit for sending emails), and I was writing the newsletter for the local running club. Yup, among my many publishing credits is the local runners’ newsletter. Suck it, Jane Austen. I write a weekly newsletter.

I wrote the entire newsletter, complete with very detailed accounts of what was happening in the local running scene, a listing of upcoming races, as well as one lost dog announcement, and the unthinkable happened. My computer got so bored with the material that it just quit. It didn’t die, or go into default mode, or start to smoke or anything, it was Just. So. Bored. I kind of was, too.

I tried for ages to retrieve the lost newsletter because I had poured an insane amount of unappreciated work into that newsletter, only to have sucked right off the screen. Well, I’m lying. I spent about three minutes looking for the lost newsletter, only to find it saved in the draft folder, which is a kind of unintentional safety net for those of us too stupid to stay off the trapeze in the first place. If I knew more about how technology worked, I probably wouldn’t have lost the newsletter to begin with, or had to spend another three minutes screaming my profanity-mantra into the microphone on my purse-sized laptop. That’ll learn me to buy a baby laptop when I really needed a huge desk-sized model, the kind more suited to inhaling important term papers or stock reports. Or Stock Reports, I don’t know which.

I Might Have to Plead the Fifth

ME Overly simple thoughts , , ,

Handcuffs...not the schmexy kind.

Good marriages are the kinds of relationships where there is open communication between spouses, and where both partners have a clear understanding of what each expects from the other. There aren’t many surprise problems in a good marriage, because the partners discuss issues well before they come up. By that definition, I do not have a good marriage.

For reasons I don’t have to tell you about because you’re not the boss of me, I recently had a discussion with my marriage partner about how we would pay for an attorney if I were ever on trial. For anything. And nothing in particular. The discussion quickly evolved into more of an argument, because my marriage partner is a cheapskate who doesn’t see the need for paying for an attorney when he clearly heard the policeman say that one would be provided for me.

ME: What if it was, like, hypothetically, first degree murder?

HIM: Why would you have murdered someone that seriously? Shouldn’t you get your feet wet with manslaughter and work your way up?

ME: Maybe someone broke in when you weren’t home and tried to hurt us. Would you pay for my lawyer then?

HIM: That’s self-defense, silly.

ME: Well, maybe I did a really thorough job killing him and it looked a little overboard.

HIM: Easy. Insanity plea. Did you remember to make it look like you ate part of him?

ME: Well, duh, of course I would. I’m just saying if it looked like I was a little vengeful, my craphead free attorney wouldn’t know what to do.

HIM: I’m sure it will be fine.

ME: Okay, what if I stole something and I’m not actually on trial for my life. Do I still have to take the guy who sold his soul to the Devil to pay for law school, or can I have my own lawyer?

HIM: If you stole something, you’ve got it coming. I recommend confessing.

ME: What if I stole something because we needed food? Hmm? What then, smart guy?

HIM: If we needed food badly enough for you to steal something, we probably can’t afford a lawyer then either.

ME: What if I’m actually FRAMED for murdering you because someone wanted us all to suffer? You would let our kids go to an orphanage while I’m serving twenty-to-life, all because my free lawyer couldn’t spring me?

HIM: How did I end up the dead guy in this scenario???

ME: Honey, whenever I envision going to jail for murder, you’re ALWAYS the dead guy. Remember that.

HIM: Can you please sign these legal documents?

ME: What are they?

HIM: Oh, nothing, just something I had my lawyer draw up.

ME: Holy crap! How come you get a lawyer and I have to take the free guy???

HIM: ‘Cause I’m the dead guy.

ME: They call the dead guy a “victim” on all the cop shows.

HIM: I know. I’m definitely the victim.

It kind of went downhill from there, but fortunately my husband has too much pride to press charges against me for domestic violence. He’d hate for the entire world to know that his wife wiped the floor with him. At least that’s how it all played out in my head. I lost interest in the whole conversation once I realized I wasn’t getting OJ’s legal dream team if I’m ever arrested. It just means I need to pay the Mob to do all my dirty work. Too bad there aren’t a lot of Pro bono Sopranos.

It’s a Bird, It’s a Plane, It’s a Pair of Underwear

ME Overly simple thoughts , , , ,


Despite pretty much sucking at it, I really do love to write. Unfortunately, the aforementioned sucking keeps me from being paid to write fiction or novels or any of the highbrow literary stuff that gets you a seat on Oprah’s couch. I do, however, get paid to write, just not books. Or anything longer than about 500 words, because apparently my readers tend to slip into a coma if they read my work for too long.

Therefore, I get paid to write articles and even I have to admit that it’s a little bit cool and it’s actually pretty fun. Today, by way of example, I got to write an article about DC Comic’s re-release of the Justice League series. For those of you not in-the-know, that’s Superman and all of the people he hangs out with, except when he’s being Clark Kent and he has to pretend he doesn’t know them if they bump into each other at the mall. Kind of like how I cannot make myself look my gynecologist in the eye if I accidentally see her at Walmart. I know where those eyes have been.

The nice people at DC Comics sent me all kinds of useful information about their characters and the relaunch, including some really helpful artwork to go with my article. Unfortunately, I can only name about three people in the picture of the Justice League. Superman is a given, Batman is pretty obvious, and I know Wonder Woman because I had some Wonder Woman Under-Roos when I was a kid. If you were born before 1976 you know what Under-Roos are; if you weren’t, well, Superman pretty much wore Under-Roos for the last seventy years.

The great thing about the updated super heroes is that Wonder Woman finally gets a pair of pants. I don’t know how comic book illustrators or fans ever expected her to kick ass in that American-flag-slash-overblown-panties outfit she used to wear, but they’ve done away with the granny panties and given her a pair of pants. Sadly, the red bustier she’s still wearing won’t let her raise her arms over her head without popping out of it, let alone lasso bad guys with her awesome glowing golden rope, but…baby steps. In a few years she might actually get to wear a shirt over her intimate apparel.

I am also completely jazz-hands about the fact that Superman no longer wears his underwear outside of his pants. Yes, I realize the man is, in fact, an alien from another planet and even immigrants to this country sometimes don’t know our cultural norms concerning wardrobe, especially if they’re from one of the burka countries. But surely to goodness someone in the last seventy years would have pulled him aside and told him he got the steps reversed when it came to putting on his pants.

I’m still a little frightened by the massive athletic supporters that the male superheroes are forced to wear, like the sheer size of their manhood tucked safely inside a titanium cup is going to intimidate the bad guys into just surrendering. We’ll have to work on that, DC.

Overall, the updated looks and new story lines are pretty exciting. Bat Girl is no longer in a wheel chair (duh, have you been living under a rock? She got SHOT by the Joker YEARS AGO!) and can walk again, but she’s also apparently a lesbian. Not kidding. Clark Kent is now single and Lois Lane is dating someone else. Spoiler alert: Batman is still a tortured soul who doesn’t actually have any super powers, but it’s okay, the Super Friends are still going to let him hang out with them but they’re totally gonna talk about him behind his back. At least he knows how to wear his underwear.

You Are What You Eat

ME Overly simple thoughts , , ,


I had to drop my subscriptions to several blogs and websites recently because my email inbox felt very claustrophobic. Aside from Canadian viagra ads and girls with live webcams who apparently want to meet for some strange reason, I receive a lot of shopping circulars and coupons for ten percent off my entire order of something that I don’t remember ever wanting to buy in the first place. My inbox looks like an episode of Hoarders.

One of the emails I decided to unsubscribe to was the AllRecipes.com daily newsletter, and this time it had nothing to do with boycotting the company because of their corporate policies that allow them to eat endangered wombats. I dumped these guys because I simply couldn’t keep up with their ridiculously high standards.

The mission of AllRecipes.com is really and truly to make you feel like an inadequate harpie who is starving her family into submission. These lovely people email a recipe and menu plan every single day, complete with full-color photographs taken by real-live housewives who’ve apparently made these dishes and received rave reviews from family and friends. One woman was supposedly given the key to her city for her potato salad recipe made with eight kinds of potatoes and homemade mayonnaise.

While I admit the recipes are helpful if you’re looking for the skinny on how to make something specific like Lithuanian Latke-Palooza, I don’t really get the people who take pictures of their recipes and post them online. Seriously, what kind of person not only had the time to take pictures of their dinner, but really thought that the rest of the world cares what her Macho Nacho Taco Bake looks like?

I decided to get over myself and try to make more room in my schedule to be more like these culinary teachers’ pets. Here is how my week of lunch time recipes turned out.

Day One: I got busy on a report for work and ended up eating Twizzlers and a Rock Star energy drink, mocha flavor. I still haven’t stopped twitching.

Day Two: I got on a health kick and had a diet Mountain Dew and some carrots with ranch dressing that I bought at the gas station.

Day Three: I didn’t have any milk, so I ate Slim Fast powder out of the canister with a spoon I found in the bottom of my filing cabinet. I don’t think it was my spoon.

Days Four and Five fell apart altogether and I don’t want photographic evidence out there on the internet in case I ever run for public office.

I don’t think I’m cut out for the world of gourmet cooking, especially since my children make loud exclamations at the dinner table like, “Wow! We’re having MEAT!” I hereby promise that if these kind folks will stop sending me recipes I will stop photographing my actual meals. And I will work hard on not becoming a hoarder.

Let That Be A Lesson To You

ME Overly simple thoughts , , ,


I’ve had some dark days over the years, very real moments in my life when I’ve had to ask the universe, “WHY?” But I had a revelation today in which I had the great fortune to find something that not many people ever discover, especially at a relatively young age like I did. I have discovered my purpose in life.

I am here on Earth to serve as a warning to others. I am a proverbial head-on-a-London-bridge-pike. Listen to my tales of woe and learn from my misfortune.

When I was three, I ate some kind of weird insanity-pepper because my brothers told me it was a cherry popsicle. I think it actually scarred the inside of my mouth. I learned that my brothers are assholes and I’m not really all that smart. And that my parents are psychos who grow insanity peppers in their garden.

At eight years old, I learned never to listen to my dad because he gave me a plastic garbage sack and told me to amuse myself by picking up litter. I reached out and grabbed a dull metal cannister that happened to be an Army-issue smoke grenade and burned the snot out of my hand. Who the heck leaves those things lying around?

The summer before sixth grade my feet had a growth spurt while the rest of my body did not, and I seem to recall that just one foot grew a lot bigger at first and the other one had to catch up to it. Who knew that could happen? I spent pretty much the entire school year face down in various places and my mom had to send a note asking the office to call her if I fell down any more so she could have me evaluated for epilepsy.

Oddly enough, middle school wasn’t too bad but by high school I learned that giving your kids weird names like Lorca means all the teachers are going to call the child “Orca” on the first day of school because the idiot in the office left off the first letter of her name by mistake. Trust me on this, name your kid Sam. Boy or girl, doesn’t matter.

By high school graduation, I ate what was possibly Mad Cow Disease-ly tainted beef and therefore cannot give blood anymore because I was contaminated. Congratulations, I can no longer donate a vital organ, either, even after I’m dead.

Ladies and gentlemen, that was just my formative years. Random weird crap has been happening to me ever since then, crazy things that make people think, “Seriously? What exactly were you doing when a piece of the Space Shuttle landed on your head?” This stuff keeps happening to me because I am alive just to be a professional cautionary tale. My entire life is meant for others to sit back and watch what happens to me. It’s like being a whipping boy, only my suffering comes from being strip searched in three different airports for traveling to the Middle East without any luggage but coming home with luggage. It’s a long story.

The Other Woman

ME Overly simple thoughts , , ,


My husband came home a couple of days ago and admitted something horrible to me. I could see he was trying to figure out the best way to tell me without upsetting me, and as he fumbled for words my mind could only veer off in the worst directions.

I just knew he was about to confess to having an affair. Or to being a member of an organized crime ring. Art forgery? Actually had a sibling he’d killed with Lawn Jarts?

I’d seen a wild behavior begin here at home, maybe a month ago. He would come home from work, exchange pleasantries with us (you know, his family), and go turn on the video game console. He would recline on the couch with one leg propped up on top of the back cushions, playing vintage 1980s Pac Man for hours, level-after-ridiculous-level, that irritating beep-beep-beep music finally driving the rest of us upstairs.

I knew this about him and I accepted it. It was his way of unwinding at the end of a long day. I even justified it. Some men go to the gym instead of coming home. Other men can’t even loosen their neckties without pouring themselves a drink. Instead, my husband liked the sense of accomplishment that comes from eating digital pellets and outrunning cartoon paranormal creatures.
But he finally told me this week about his other “secret life.”

HIM: “I know you don’t think I’m really DOING anything useful when I play Pac Man, but I’ll have you know that all the time I play Pac Man has really helped me with my Mrs. Pac Man game.”

ME: (stupefied silence)

HIM: “Really. My score at Mrs. Pac Man is getting better and better.”

ME: (couldn’t-care-less silence)

HIM: “In fact, my Pac Man playing here at home is actually saving our family money.”

ME: (Dear Lord, please don’t let me speak. Please keep me from saying something mean. Amen.)

HIM: “In fact, I can play about eight levels on a single token.”

ME: “Wait. Token?”

HIM: “Yeah. You know, the token. You put it in the video game.”

ME: “Video game. Like at the arcade?”

HIM: “Of course.”

ME: “Oh my gosh, are you seriously telling me you’ve been going to the arcade to play Mrs. Pac Man?” (Loud screeching became involved…so much for my earlier prayer.) “Are YOU the creepy guy who hangs out in the arcade by himself playing VIDEO GAMES surrounded by freaked out ten-year-olds???”

I’ll spare you the rest of the conversation because it got really, really stupid after that. It involved a lengthy explanation of how playing video games was actually as healthy as going to work out (wrong), and how he was only spending a $1.25 a week at lunch now because he could play for his entire lunch hour on a single token (okay, he has a point), and by the time his little yellow blob finally got eaten by the low-resolution ghosts there was no time left for food (I never don’t have time for food). Sadly, the man has to pass an adult video store to get to the arcade and there’s a part of me that wishes he was stopping in there instead just because it would make more sense.

Given the wide variety of alternatives my mind has now come up with, I should probably be grateful that the “other woman” in his life hit her peak in 1983 and after all these years still wears a ridiculous pink hair bow perched on top of her head. I hope she knows this is just a passing fancy for him, and that I actually have his heart. Speaking of owning necessary vital organs, I’m gonna have his kidneys in a box if he starts hanging out at the skating rink behind my back.