Send Me On My Way

Last Thursday evening/Friday morning was among the most sucktacular of my career, what with an early morning finish and an even earlier start — to put it in perspective, I slept a grand total of two and a half hours in the pants I was wearing and turned around and wore them the following (well, SAME) day, unaltered (same underwear too, because I am gross like that and was also VERY TIRED). Jeans, by the way, do not make good pajamas, but I’m guessing you already knew that. And while normally, I like to change my underwear every day, I also like to wash off my raccoon eyes, but this was a special circumstance where neither happened.

Beyond that, I have one thing basically on my mind: SUPER TUESDAY SUPER TUESDAY SUPER TUESDAY. I can’t focus, I’m so excited about it. No no — excited is the wrong word. ANXIOUS. I am so very anxious. Sadly, this election, I have turned into one of those people who has become a little passionate, so you know what, I’m not even going to talk about it, because I like you, and there’s a chance we might disagree and who wants to argue? No one! (OMG SUPER TUESDAY)

Moving on! Do you know that after last week’s Facebook post (short story: I joined and feel old, as what is the POINT?), during the aforementioned work misery, I had a lull between editing some stuff (at midnight, oh yes, MIDNIGHT) and I was dorking around on that stupid, stupid evil application and somehow ended up — or so I thought — accidentally inviting my entire Google address book to be my friend on Facebook. THANK YOU FACEBOOK. This is awesome, as it was my professional account, and oh yes, there were CEOs and Microsoft executives and assistants to Steve fucking JOBS on that account. People I have e-mailed exactly ONCE, likely for a story or a press release or something STUPID, and oh, please, will Steve Jobs be my Facebook friend? Pretty please?

Mercifully, after a frantic e-mail to Metalia (who was kind enough to laugh with me at the ridiculously frantic tone of my note), it appears that I did not, and THANK YOU JESUS, because right after that happened — AND I MEAN RIGHT AFTER — my friend Sean tagged and posted a video of me freshman year of college hanging out in someone’s dorm room and gazing adoringly into the camera that my then-soon-to-be boyfriend was wielding (VOMIT OMG). And it was just when I’d convinced myself that even if I had, it wouldn’t be that big of a deal.

Oh God. I was wearing sorority letters and cutoff light denim shorts (WITH FRAYED EDGES) and Sean was singing loudly to Rusted Root and there’s that whole LOOK I keep giving to the camera (or to the cameraman, more likely, and again, OMG PUKE) and please, imagine, if you will, Google’s head of China operations, Kai Fu Lee, accepting my invite (although really, WHY WOULD HE?) and finding that little gem for all to see.

Please, please kill me now. I have to be honest in that I haven’t even watched the whole thing and I don’t think I can. One look at my frayed-edge shorts and I’m contemplating burning all the jean shorts I can find in some sort of wild effigy. Mostly, though, I want to take my nineteen-year-old self aside and tell her, really, this whole thing is a waste of time: get a new haircolor, a new boyfriend (Adam was a mere dorm building away but I didn’t know it) and also maybe some new pants. Or any pants at all.

In other news, and I meant to mention this before, but Lawyerish reminded me with her phobia post (please go tell her what you’re afraid of, because I am RIVETED by phobias and I can’t wait to read the comments. Also: she’s afraid of clusters of things! CLUSTERS! FASCINATING): I, too, share Swistle’s fear of Large Underwater Things. Once, at the dolphin tank at Sea World (the same visit that I fell headfirst into the stingray pool, which is another story), I lost my everloving SHIT because a giant gray dolphin was under the water! Near me! GAAAAAAAAAH. And I haven’t even gone into the countless times I freaked out while swimming in granite quarries growing up (LARGE SLABS OF UNDERWATER GRANITE), nor have I mentioned the other fear I have: that of finding a dead body in the water.

I’m TERRIFIED of finding a dead body. What would I do? Who would I call? HOW WOULD I GO ON? I realize the chances of this are slim-to-none (how many bodies have YOU found?), but every time I’m swimming (which is a lot, I love to swim), I suddenly become irrationally afraid of a dead body floating in the water, its deadness coming to get me with the papery milky skin and everything and OH MY GOD, I can’t, because I just threw up.

And with that, I think that’s enough. There’s a LOT of screaming and throwing of hats and sundry items in my house right now, for the Superbowl, it did not go well. And I have to tell you: I am glad I don’t care that much, because if this were baseball I would be crying and throwing things, too. Um, how about them Celtics, I guess? (Tom Brady was totally injured, so Adam says, and I tend to agree.) (Also, this whole idea that the winner is a “world champion”? It makes no sense to me! THERE ARE ONLY AMERICAN TEAMS THAT PLAY FOOTBALL.) (Same goes for baseball: NORTH AMERICAN TEAMS, PEOPLE.)

I would also like to add a random aside that I’ve always harbored the notion that Tom Brady is a bit of a douchebag — I know I’m supposed to like him, being a New Englander and all, but the whole Golden Boy image rang hollow for me, and in the pre-game interviews, Adam just reminded me that Terry Bradshaw TOTALLY SET HIM UP to look like a douche, with the baby talk and all, and OH HE DID. So you know, Tom Brady, maybe you should grow up a little. You aren’t perfect! In fact I DO NOT THINK YOU ARE HOT. SO THERE.

*Rusted Root. And ah, Facebook friends can see my friend Sean doing a DELIGHTFUL rendition of it, in addition to me in short denim shorts and a Tri-Delt sweatshirt. (I HATE YOU FACEBOOK.)

22 comments February 3rd, 2008