Dear Universe, that was SO funny that time when you made me single for 31 years. You're a jokester!
So I reluctantly logged into my online dating account to check my messages today and to my delight, men with the user names "Fat_homo50" and "Tacobellsushi" asked me out. Fun!
Upon reading their messages, I promptly shut my laptop and headed toward my kitchen to stick my head in my oven, but I got distracted by a peanut butter M&M I found under my fridge. C'mon, I have priorities.
I also, may or may not have taken a Percocet and messaged a very attractive man online and asked him only one question, "Would you rather be swallowed whole by a shark or attacked by a bear."
(Ugh I'm cringing as I type this. I should probably have kept that to myself.)
Let's slap that on my list of regrets and call it a day shall we? Don't judge, he said in his profile:
"You can ask me one question, and it doesn't matter how crazy or sinister it is, and I promise to answer honestly."
Insert crickets...He hasn't responded and that was oh..um 10 hours ago.
I really want to write him the following but I fear it will only make things worse:
"Hey, sorry about the message earlier, it was sponsored by Percocet." Jesus. I think I've just answered the age old question of why I'm single. (If you listen closely, you can hear the sound of sad violin music playing in the background.)
I also have a MAJOR problem with Sundays. And by the angry tone of this post right now, it seems like I really hate my life. Which is not the case, I just REALLY hate Sundays Mondays,Tuesdays Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays more than I hate peas and that's A LOT. (That vegetable should never have been invented in my opinion. You surprise me with peas in a meal, I'll surprise you with a swift punch to the throat.)
On Sunday's I get this fierce anxiety about the week ahead...I mean, I just don't know what's gonna happen. And please, can you blame me? Since the universe is sticking to the, "Holy shit, we should do that to her" project, it's not unreasonable for me to think that I could wake up in the morning and the bones in my leg could spontaneously turn to dust. Or maybe in my sleep, I'll spontaneously give birth to my twin that I didn't know I ate in the womb. Who knows. Thanks TLC!
By the way, The Learning Channel is turning me into a major hypochondriac/weirdo. It used to be all about birth stories, wedding planning and nice pretty shit...and yes, they still have that, but on occasion TLC will have the odd documentary narrated by some monotone British man that goes something like this:
*Must read in a slow monotone British accent: "On Sharon's 34th birthday she awoke to find 18 extra fingers protruding from her stomach, each had nails, 4 of which looked like dinosaur claws."
That type of fuckery keeps me awake for days.
Well, truth be told, the real reason why I'm a giant Debbie Downer today is because I did laundry...and yes, laundry sucks but it shouldn't launch you into a state of depression. It's just every time I take my underwear out of the dryer to fold it, I hold my panties up in absolute shock and astonishment that yes, those in fact are my underwear and NOT a circus tent... Whomp, whomp.
Anyway, Dexter is on. He's one crafty son of a bitch.
Until next time,
Nanners
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