I have no idea what is up with my brain lately, but whatever it is makes me strangely disinclined to update. Things are happening — funny things! cute things! dumb things! — but I can’t seem to spin them out into entries. In lieu of narrative structure, please enjoy a silly meme that’s all about me. Me! Meeee!
Seven Things You Don’t Know About Me:
1) I can’t stand the number three or any variations thereof. I hate numbers that are three or multiples thereof, I hate numbers that end with three or multiples thereof, I find it deeply disquieting when objects are grouped by threes (or sixes, or nines, or twelves…). My favorite number is 10, because it completely and totally avoids having anything to do with three. When I was a kid, I associated three with evil and the devil and terror and gore, and from there it’s just turned into a general sense of bad.
2) I trim my eyelashes. With cuticle scissors. They grow ridiculously, grotesquely long — not in a sexy Beyoncé way, but in a way that causes them to tangle with my eyebrows. I have absolutely no idea what is up with that. I used to pluck the worst offenders, but that led to years of “whoops, I just yanked out half my lashes” embarrassment, so… cuticle scissors.
3) I pretended to be straight edge all throughout my teens, even though my daily habit was to drink vodka from a water bottle in quantities that put even the hardiest of Russian generals to shame. I don’t really have any idea why I did this; it’s not like my peers would have thought I was uncool for boozing it up.
4) I once drove my ex-boyfriend’s car straight into a 10×14 solid-brick sign. I maintain that this was his fault — I distinctly remember him grabbing the steering wheel and yanking it because he was afraid I was taking the turn too sharply — but he maintains that it was my fault. This led to my spending $600 of the “independence money” my great-grandmother gave me on replacing the entire front end of his car. As this is my journal and therefore I am always right, I would like to take a moment to reiterate that the whole thing was his fault.
5) My kitchen is completely clean 99.8% of the time. A dirty kitchen makes me twitch. Invariably, I will have unexpected company during the other 0.02%. I feel that there is a pseudo-scientific law that should apply here, but I haven’t yet found one that fits.
6) I am extremely sensitive to smell. Michael cheerfully cleans the catbox several times a day because he prefers that to cleaning up my vomit. I have been awakened by smells in the night; a dirty sock can send me into a tailspin. I can smell what people ate for lunch the day before, detect the presence of a rosebush from two blocks away, and have serious issues with scented deodorants. This is a gift when eating beautifully prepared meals and a curse when living in this ridiculous cow (and ethanol, and grain-processing) town.
7) I don’t decorate. Anything. I don’t coordinate my rooms, I don’t bust out streamers for holidays, and I think frosting is best when smeared haphazardly over a Black Forrest cake. I think it’s horrendously wasteful to buy things for the sole purpose of looking at them, and I hate “arranging” things. I prefer to accumulate strange and wonderful things (like the carved-stone solid perfume holders my mom just sent to me) randomly and let them find homes where they will. My house is haphazard, eclectic, and functional — by accident rather than design.
Extra Bonus Thing #8! I am a pompous ass. I have no idea why this whole thing sounds so stiff. I am tagging all of you, because clearly I fail.