Btw- I feel like I heavily overuse comma's but I was told when I was kid that, "You put a comma in any sentence when you think you'd take a breath." Well that's just useless since I think I'm 3 cigarettes away from a fatal lung problem. So please bear with the horrific use of punctuation in my blog.
Despite having the mouth of a gang member straight off the streets of Compton, I'm a somewhat productive member of society and have surprisingly managed to maintain a good job. (Hmmm, is that sentence online dating profile material?) For the record, if I got to choose, I'd be a Blood, not a Crip since I look fab in red. Oh, or maybe a Latin King since gold goes well with my hair.
Anyway, as I was walking back to my office after my Starbucks episode, I got to thinking, "Why do I fucking swear SO much?" Then I remembered the following:
1981-Parents discover I have a life threatening allergy to penicillin after basically bathing me in it for having the sniffles. Nearly die. Fuck.
1982- Mother drops me off the change table while reaching for her beer (just kidding, it was meth. Totally joking, she doesn't like this joke of mine. But I did fall off the change table. Survived. Fuck.
1984- My little bro is born. FUCK THAT. I'm not sharing the attention. I was so angry that I told my kindergarten teacher that he died during birth...Then she called my house to give my Mom her condolences...Ooops. Hide in washroom for an exhausting 2 hours. Fuck.
1986- While staring in the mirror at the tender age of 5, I become enraged that my name is not Cynthia and I wanted it to be. So in the spirit of being a little asshole, I wrote my parents hate mail for 6 months petitioning for them to take me to court for a legal name change. That obviously never happened. Fuck.
1987- Gr.1 teacher brings to my parent's attention that I keep writing stories about murdering my brother. Fuck.
1988- Caught the tail end of the news one night and heard they found a body in the ravine by my parents house. Stay awake until summer of '97 thinking I'm going to get abducted and meet my demise in dumpster. Obsession with Dateline begins. Fuck.
1989- On a class trip to the Zoo discover there is a Gorilla named Amanda (my name). Endure ridiculing and disappear for 3 hours to scream cry. Found by the goats at dusk, eating ice cream. Lifetime of emotional eating ensues. Fuck.
1990- Break my arm roller skating for the first time, Whichever parent thought it was okay to stick me on wheels was obviously high. Fuck.
1991- Get pulled into the hallway by my teacher...again. Only this time it's not for writing short stories like I was asked. Apparently writing love letters to Donnie Whalberg from New Kids on the Block does not qualify as a short story. Fuck that, it's a love story. Begin identifying with Bridget Fonda in Single White Female. Told it must stop. Oh well, back to writing stories about killing my brother. Fuck.
1993- Day before my dance recital, dislocate my ankle while playing basketball, pretending I was in the WNBA. This was all hoop dreams. game over. Fuck.
1995- Night before first day of Gr.9, I break my arm...again... while looking for a hair brush in my parent's garage of all places. Fuck.
1996- Get hit in the head by a line drive while in the stands at the Toronto Blue Jays game and fracture my skull. Headline the 6 o'clock news. Fuck.
2000-2004- In University, convince myself I have every STD imaginable and think I am "with child" every Sunday night. The search for used condoms in bedroom becomes exhausting. Fuck.
2002- Found scream crying outside on the lawn of a Frat house after being dumped by a smoking hot guy. Develop a love affair with pizza. Fuck.
2005-2009- Get first "real job" and move into the city, party like Paris Hilton for 4 years and rack up a considerable amount of debt. Only problem is, I'm the heiress to the "Nada, Zilch and Nothing" empire. Go into personal recession. Fuck.
2009- Develop severe redness of the face, start looking like a burn victim, self diagnosed rosacea sufferer, only to visit my dermatologist who tells me it's facial dandruff and prescribes me medication for a yeast infection. What? Fuck.
2010- Move home to my parents place for 8 very long long months, slip into depression, eat my feelings and take up masturbating. Fuck.
2010- Finally get own place, drink lots of wine and get banned from Pizza Pizza for habitually drunk dialing them and falling asleep... and NOT waking up to collect my party size pizza. Fuck.
2011- Go on first date in a very long time, only to discover he has a TLC Network type obsession with shoes. I dig it for the first week and quickly end it once an absorbent amount of shoe photos are requested by him. (I should really get on Christian Mingle.com. They'll love me. Fuck.
2012- Break my ankle and all my toes into 4 thousand pieces while leaving a singles event wearing high heels. In bed for 4 months. Get trapped in an elevator twice, convince myself I'm plunging to my death. Survived. Fuck.
Thursday, November 1st 2012- Get trapped in elevator while trying to deliver my 9 million dollar rent cheque to my landlord, forced to walk up six flights of stairs with 6 pins and plates in my foot. Discover I the mobility of a 90 year old. Results in extreme swelling and it ends up looking like this:
I guess in summation a few lessons I've learned over the years are; I have the bone density of a rotting corpse, I can endure mental and physical anguish, and I'm one incident away of turning into a true life Breaking Bad episode.
And yes, this is all true.
Peace,
Nanners
2 comments:
Cab pity parties are the fucking best. Usually the driver hits on me, so I don't feel as bad when eating floor pizza alone at home at 3AM.
Hahaha. Floor pizza is where it's at.
Post a Comment