Tuesday, March 18, 2008

God, I'm Retarded. . .

There's a girl I like. It's not just a passing interest like so many are. She makes me nervous. It's rare that I find someone that makes me nervous. In response, I make a painstaking effort to appear calm, collected, and cool. Never once lending to the fact that I'm an awkward, loud, boorish, racist, unkempt, annoying after ten minutes, slovenly, fad-dieting, sexist, thin-skinned, deplorable, Eczema-ridden, befouled, selfish, specimen of man. As far as she's concerned, I'm Jay Gatsby up until the last twenty pages.

With this, I was thrilled to see I missed a call from her last night. I returned the call, only to get her voicemail. I can't tell you what the message said. All I remember is my internal monologue, "Don't ramble. Don't ramble. Don't ramble. Fuck! You're rambling." I ended the call and set the phone down. Having just gotten back from the gym, I helped myself to a can of Stallone-brand High Protein Chocolate Pudding.

Maybe it was the late hour and exhausting day. Or the giddiness running through my veins. As I retrieved the tin and spoon, I started singing a song I made up as I was singing it. It went, "Eatin' Pudding, Eatin' Pudding, Eatin' Pudding," and was accompanied by the sound of me actually eating pudding and smacking my lips.

I was about to make up a refrain when I looked down to see the call timer was still timing. The line had been active throughout my entire song.

As if she were watching me, I slowly creeped my hand towards the "End" button. Yet, for some reason I started talking aloud as if someone was in the room with me. Perhaps so that I could later claim a friend and jingle writer was over at the time of the call.

A friend once wrote to say that she liked my blog, which she referred to as my, "Pity Parade."

I think she'll enjoy this post.

Though, come to think of it . . I don't think she said she liked the blog. I think she just called it a pity parade, outright.


me... said...

You are retarded. Your spell-check told me so.

A.v.E said...

What gives on the spell check? I corrected spelling three times and it still wouldn't save the changes.

In my defense, the manner in which I post is as follows:

I have to minimize my screen to the point where you can only see one line of text, across. Then type while looking around to see if anyone is approaching. It's then saved, and I re-read it after it's been posted, noting any changes that need to be made. I keep a hand poised over Alt and F4, at all times.

I write this blog the same way Antonio Banderas would: Weeth Dansure.

By the way, how is the baby coming along? I'm sure it's going to be delicious.

me... said...

I will forgive the spelling, but only because you are blogging from the front lines and do infuse my life with a vicarious, Zorro-like thrill.

The baby is coming along nicely. Once I get to the farm supply store for some chicken wire, I will be done shopping and, finally, fully prepared for parenthood.