Quote of the Day:
"Discovered by the Germans in 1904, they named it San Diego, which of course in German means a whale's vagina." - Ron Burgundy, Anchorman
Once again, I have been neglecting my blogging duties for
the past few months. I find it
interesting that I feel such guilt about it since no one really reads this
thing anyway. I mean, I have plenty of
thoughts and should write them down
because if I try and articulate them, I usually end up crying or sounding like
an incompetent, emotionally unstable child.
Seriously, I think I sound pretty intelligent, and sometimes even
occasionally clever, when I say stuff in my head. But somewhere between my cerebrum and my
pie-hole, my lucid logic somehow turns to “goo-goo ga-ga.” So why do I continue
sporadically filling this blank screen with nigh-witty nonsense that no one
reads and send it into the vast universe for everyone to read? Cranial sanity, I suppose…
Well, back to the Lonely Blog drawing board! I’m thinking about changing the name of this
thing; I don’t share too many of my “adventures” on it, so it doesn’t really
make too much sense. Plus, I’m pretty
sure my mother skims this thing from time to time, so I don’t think she
wants/needs to know about my legendary status among the Midwestern truck stops
and my penchant for Somali pirates. However,
I do take pride in my dorkiness. On the
other hand, my man insists that the term “dork” is a derogatory term that
insults one’s intelligence. On the other other hand, I underplay my
intelligence quite a lot, so in essence, that indeed validates me as a
self-proclaimed dork… on the other other
other hand, (there are a plethora of hands around here), a dork is slang for a
whale’s penis and I definitely don’t want to be associated with that… I wonder
how many people didn’t want to be associated with San Diego after Ron Burgundy
enlightened us with its real translation...
Maybe I’ll name it something in reference to the fact that
nobody reads it. BRILLIANT!!
I finally thought of a subject that everyone can identify
with: Birthdays. Everyone’s got a
birthday. Everyone’s got their own
opinion about birthdays. You may hate
them or love them. You may revel in the
obligatory attention paid to you on that one day of the year when you are the
true star. You may dread birthdays as a
cruel, painful reminder from God that you are now one year closer to death. You may not even remember it’s your birthday
until Facebook reminds everyone else to remind you.
Unlike the winter gift-giving holidays, the gift giving on birthdays are usually pretty
one-sided. I feel like a freeloader when
I get all these gifts and I don’t have to give anything. I’m pretty confident that people like me are
the ones who invented party favors; people who feel so awkward about not giving
anything while they’re being showered with love and gifts, they have to give at
least a little something out of some internal guilt.
This year, I vow to not internalize the mechanics of
birthdays and just enjoy myself. I’ve
got a birthday weekend lined up with the boyfriend, who knows of my aversion to
being fussed over, so I’m covered there. I also vow to ask for what I want this year.
Not so much gift-wise (see below), but I think I’m too passive for my own
good. I need to pull on the Bitch Boots
every once and a while. It’s good to be
assertive and I need some practice. I’ll
start with the following request… nay, requirement, for my family: This year for my birthday dinner, I wish to
eat at Joe’s Crab Shack and receive some baked good made with funfetti.
Afterthought:
I think the Birthday Person’s mother
deserves some kind of shout out each year too for squeezing your sorry ass out of
her vagina after lugging you around
for 9 months. So this April 21, I thank
you, Mother! ....And thanks for spotting the typo!!!
