First, a small disclaimer. Since apparently, after further review, I do fucking swear too much. Especially on this blog. Please be aware that this blog is rated the following, for violent abuse of every fucking swear word in the English language. Bastardos! (And Spanglish.)
Good thing no damn kids read this. I would bitch-slap them into next Tuesday, for fuck’s sake! (I wonder if I can get it to go up in ratings any higher.) (Yeah, you’re right. I’d be an asshole to try.)
I had an actual post to write tonight. But then I got home and my phone rang. Twice!
People, I dislike the phone. I hate talking on the phone. I could not have lived in a workplace pre-email and electronic communication. My old boss at the dirt company used to scold me all the time about only trying to contact people via email. He’s all “pick up the damn phone! Dirt peoples are not so smart with the ‘puters.” (That’s funnier in my mind because I’m picturing a big, old guy in overalls and a straw hat chewing on hay telling that to me. Like people in the dirt business wear overalls. Pshaw.) (And another reason why no one should be allowed into the innerworkings of my cerebellum.) (NO idea where I pulled that one out of.) (Your cerebellum, most likely, dumbass.) (Oh. Shut the fuck up, Hypothalamus!)
And that, ladies and gentlemen (and Rich), are the only parts of the brain I remember!
Anyway, phone, right. I like emailing. I’m a writer. I’m much smarter and funnier when I write. (I mean, minus that above crap.) (And most of these posts.) I can take the time to put complete thoughts together. Writing comes very naturally to me. I can easily express my thoughts in writing. (Anyone else think I’m trying to convince myself of this as well?)
When I speak? It’s a whole other ball of wax. It usually comes out slurred. And most times I go on and on and on. Because I hate awkward pauses. There should be no silence. Fill it with words! And stories! And uncomfortable laughter!
So tonight I was shocked to get a phone call from my half-sister. She’s about to be 19. She knows everything. Just ask her. I mean, didn’t you know everything at 19. (I’m just kidding. She’s a good kid.) (And apparently old enough to read this. Legally.) This phone call tonight reminded me of Swishy’s.
Me: Did you misdial?
Her: No. I wanted to know if you still wanted to be roommates.
Me: Um, what?
Her: I was wondering if you wanted to be roommates.
Me: Um, I’m sorry. What?
Her: Room. Mates.
Me: Like for a day?
Her: (in that cute 19-year old giggle we all wish we still had) No silly, for like the whole year.
Me: Who put you up to this?
Her: No one. I need a roommate. I think we should live together.
Me: No. I don’t want to be your roommate. Am almost 30. You are 19.
Me: There’s like a pre-teen person age difference there.
Me: No. And get back to me when you’re 30 and my 19-year old daughter wants to live with you.
Her: I’m pre-med! That couldn’t mathematically happen.
Me: (I’m not so good with the math.) I could adopt!
Her: See! You need me as a roomie! I’ll do your math for you.
Me: Honey, that’s what calculators are for. And no, I’m not going to be your roommate. And tell your mother to stop laughing in the background.
I’m still laughing at the fact that she thought I’d say yes. There was enough of an inkling that she actually called. And hey, give the kid an A for effort for trying. Especially since the last time she stayed at my place, she claims my cat peed on her towel. Yeah, like my cat would push all your clothes out of the way in your bag JUST to pee on your towel.
Oh. Right. He is pretty dexterous. For not having opposable thumbs and all.
And when asked about this whole roommate nonsense, Bacon demanded I “Liven Up A Salad.” Which, I don’t know. But I’m taking it to mean ”no f’ing roommates!”