The Day I Was Born
This exact day many many years ago was the day I was born. To mark this unfortunate event, my family brought me to this suspiciously ghetto restaurant for dinner. One of the things that 
bothered right off the bat were the green ‘recycle’ signs proudly emblazoned on the table napkins. I mean, what’s that all about? A reminder for me so that everytime I wipe my mouth and see a dark greenish fleck on the side that someone had used this previously to pick their nose and those stuff got recycled too? Why do I see a small letter ‘W’ and a faded letter ‘C’ on here? And those puss-colored spots at the bottom… are those Herpes juice? What kinds of paper did they exactly recycle this stuff from? *… after much consideration* I don’t think I wanna know.
On the brighter side, this place actually had lots of customers – not that this assures me that I won’t die from that extra salty pea soup we just had, which was probably made of another ingredient that which strangely enough rhymes with pea but ends with an ‘E’. Ooo, don’t you just love rhymes!!! Uh, ahem. Anyways, as I was saying, this place was jam-packed and I love people-watching. I love to watch people - especially when I can track their progression from sobriety to the various levels of intoxication. Sitting across us was a table of six. There were two guys, each with a woman in tow. One had potential, while the other reminded me of Liza Minnelli -- or Kelly Osbourne, they aren't much different afterall. Whenever he was saying something, his mouth would go into a big ‘O’ shape, highly reminiscent of an inflatable doll’s mouth – not that I own one of course, I’m just using a memory I had of a friend having such a doll – well it wasn’t actually his but his friend’s friend and it was there in his apartment because… well… err, nevermind.
Anyway, as the night progressed I became more and more confused. The better looking of the two kept covering his mouth when laughing and the uglier one, always held his wine glass with the last to fingers sticking out. This was when I decided they were both gay and wondered if I by being slightly interested in them earlier made me also gay – or lesbian, but most likely both.
Enter the scene: my maternal grandmother. Apparently this was suppose to be a surprise. Fine. I was surprised. As long as I don’t have to act happy about it. One of her bridge buddies dropped her off after their game, which was fine, I don’t mind her having dinner with us. Until she gave me my birthday gift.
The last time I accepted ‘a gift’ from her was back in freshman year. She gave me a set of pastel granny panties, and confiscated all of my exsiting ones because she said they were 'sinful things'.
Three hundred sixty five was the number of days I had super wedgies. Five thousand eight hundred was the number of hours I spent trying to hide my wedgies. Two hundred thirty-eight was the number of times I was teased about it. One hundred eighty two was the number of people who knew about it. Seventy nine, actually saw me in it. Zero was the number of friends I had by the end of the school year.
This year though, I received this collection of figurines.
At first, I did not know what to think. I toyed with them for a little, intrigued, then thought: what the fuck could they possibly be for? Is that kid groping Jesus? The answer was clear. To annoy me.
People often tell me that I hate an unusually large number of insignificant things. Well, I hate those people. Seriously, what was this suppose to mean? That I should start taking up sports? That I should start thinking of Jesus while watching ESPN? Or is it a reminder that Jesus loves sports? WHAT IS IT?!?!?! JUST FUCKING TELL ME GODDAMMIT! I hate secret codes and symbols. Why can’t she just come out and say whatever she wants to say? I hate her gift. I hate that I had to see her gift. And as much as I know this is my birthday and that I should be all happy and thankful that she came and remembered me, all I really wanted to do was slap her in the face with a dead fish.
I’m going to have to end this post now so I can go smash and burn those repulsive widgets of idolatry – and no, don’t even try to convince me otherwise. I’m seriously pissed and I need to release my aggression; less another cat in the neighborhood goes missing by sunrise.
bothered right off the bat were the green ‘recycle’ signs proudly emblazoned on the table napkins. I mean, what’s that all about? A reminder for me so that everytime I wipe my mouth and see a dark greenish fleck on the side that someone had used this previously to pick their nose and those stuff got recycled too? Why do I see a small letter ‘W’ and a faded letter ‘C’ on here? And those puss-colored spots at the bottom… are those Herpes juice? What kinds of paper did they exactly recycle this stuff from? *… after much consideration* I don’t think I wanna know.
On the brighter side, this place actually had lots of customers – not that this assures me that I won’t die from that extra salty pea soup we just had, which was probably made of another ingredient that which strangely enough rhymes with pea but ends with an ‘E’. Ooo, don’t you just love rhymes!!! Uh, ahem. Anyways, as I was saying, this place was jam-packed and I love people-watching. I love to watch people - especially when I can track their progression from sobriety to the various levels of intoxication. Sitting across us was a table of six. There were two guys, each with a woman in tow. One had potential, while the other reminded me of Liza Minnelli -- or Kelly Osbourne, they aren't much different afterall. Whenever he was saying something, his mouth would go into a big ‘O’ shape, highly reminiscent of an inflatable doll’s mouth – not that I own one of course, I’m just using a memory I had of a friend having such a doll – well it wasn’t actually his but his friend’s friend and it was there in his apartment because… well… err, nevermind.
Anyway, as the night progressed I became more and more confused. The better looking of the two kept covering his mouth when laughing and the uglier one, always held his wine glass with the last to fingers sticking out. This was when I decided they were both gay and wondered if I by being slightly interested in them earlier made me also gay – or lesbian, but most likely both.
Enter the scene: my maternal grandmother. Apparently this was suppose to be a surprise. Fine. I was surprised. As long as I don’t have to act happy about it. One of her bridge buddies dropped her off after their game, which was fine, I don’t mind her having dinner with us. Until she gave me my birthday gift.
The last time I accepted ‘a gift’ from her was back in freshman year. She gave me a set of pastel granny panties, and confiscated all of my exsiting ones because she said they were 'sinful things'.
Three hundred sixty five was the number of days I had super wedgies. Five thousand eight hundred was the number of hours I spent trying to hide my wedgies. Two hundred thirty-eight was the number of times I was teased about it. One hundred eighty two was the number of people who knew about it. Seventy nine, actually saw me in it. Zero was the number of friends I had by the end of the school year.
This year though, I received this collection of figurines.
At first, I did not know what to think. I toyed with them for a little, intrigued, then thought: what the fuck could they possibly be for? Is that kid groping Jesus? The answer was clear. To annoy me.
People often tell me that I hate an unusually large number of insignificant things. Well, I hate those people. Seriously, what was this suppose to mean? That I should start taking up sports? That I should start thinking of Jesus while watching ESPN? Or is it a reminder that Jesus loves sports? WHAT IS IT?!?!?! JUST FUCKING TELL ME GODDAMMIT! I hate secret codes and symbols. Why can’t she just come out and say whatever she wants to say? I hate her gift. I hate that I had to see her gift. And as much as I know this is my birthday and that I should be all happy and thankful that she came and remembered me, all I really wanted to do was slap her in the face with a dead fish.
I’m going to have to end this post now so I can go smash and burn those repulsive widgets of idolatry – and no, don’t even try to convince me otherwise. I’m seriously pissed and I need to release my aggression; less another cat in the neighborhood goes missing by sunrise.
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