Well before I started blogging, let alone flunked out of the blogging world (oopsie), it became clear that a reality of my life is that I experience the same old shit everyone else does, but slightly amplified.
Some have used the term “emotional basket-case,” while others prefer “crazy.” I’m the one standing on the rooftop shouting, “I JUST FEEL A LOT OF STUFF A LOT, OK?” Obviously.
Still, everyone gets down or up or happy or sad or cries at every Charmin commercial and YouTube clip that involves a wee creature of any species whatsoever. I mean, that’s totes a universal phenomenon.
And we all have headaches or wonky knees or irritated skin or adult acne, which is just fucking bullshit, or migraines that last for three months and a healthy narcotics reliance. This is just par for the course of a 2011 lifestyle.
But what I find really fascinating is my uncanny ability to maximize the damage done by my ordinary clumsiness.
See, if there’s a doorframe in your home, I’m bound to smack a hip into it. You’ve got dishes? I can break one – or many – and get shards of glass or ceramic embedded in the most unlikely of places. Ear lobe injury? I got you.
If my entirely scientific poll of looking at shit on Twitter has provided correct data, I can only extrapolate that you’re all quite clumsy, too.
Yes, I’m looking at you, Peachy. And don’t you go blaming that whole “major health issue brain problem” shit. I know it’s just clumsiness. We’ve got a lot in common.
Just in the last 36 hours, even, I managed to walk past the counter, which promptly jumped out and bit me in the middle of my back; break a dish while setting it on the table, slicing open my foot with its dull-but-vicious ceramic bits; drop a spoon in spectacularly gravitationally-straight fashion onto the top of my foot, breaking the skin and developing a nice-sized welt; knocking my phone off the counter (standard), which fell on my toes (standard) and promptly split open two toenails (motherfucker!); and, last but most definitely not least, slice open my hand on the edge of an ICE CUBE IN THE ICEMAKER.
Ahem.
Also important to this post is the amount of ugly shit my boyfriend owns.
SEEMINGLY RANDOM TOPIC CHANGE!
Since I have been so remiss about reporting in on the good, bad and ridiculous of my life recently (or at all), y’all might not know I moved in with Boyfriend. It’s all quite lovely, this beautiful three-bedroom townhome full of walls on which I get to decorate (once I convince him my decorating plans don’t actually include the yellow Oscar Mayer Weinermobile on my desk or my maraca collection. Surprisingly, that’s not going as well as planned. Hmm.) but we’re coming upon a few snags.
See, Boyfriend is a highly sentimental man – this is a good thing, people, I know; I’m not that much of an idiot – and thus develops serious emotional attachments to approximately everything. This includes creepy and ugly figurines of his grandmother’s – who, I’m sure, was a lovely lady and who deserves to be remembered with honor and love… just without the creepy eyes of her figurines following me around the room. We’ve actually agreed to keep them in a box in the garage, but I swear, I can still feel their eyes.
Said sentimental collection includes a vaguely plush sack of potatoes, with the kind of eyes that blink and preternaturally happy smiles. I say vaguely because half of it is burlap and the other half pantyhose. The story behind that one is so annoyingly cringe-worthy I won’t even try.
Important note: There are no pictures of these heinous artifacts because I am actually mature enough to have asked Boyfriend if I could post these photos on the internet and he is smart enough to have said no. THAT’S CALLED LOVE. (See, baby?)
Suffice it to say, the man owns a lot of ridiculous shit. Now, as someone who loves ridiculous shit, that is not an issue in its own right. The problem here is that his ridiculous shit is creepy and/or ugly, and a lot of it stares at me as I walk past. My ridiculous shit, on the other hand, only includes one thing with eyes, and it’s a demony nutcracker from Jenny that has candy for brains. And a flag made of a post-it.
You see the difference, right?
Ok, so, to give this post some semblance of sense (and a little more alliteration), I’ve decided to hang a shingle out there and rent myself out to help YOU get rid of your unwanted creepy tchotchkes. Since I’m so damn good at breaking shit, hire me to be your new clumsy bestie! And since I invariably injure myself with every attempt, it’ll never look intentional. Your secret is safe with me.
Mom decide to collect the toile Spode with Little Boy Blue on each salad plate? Give me two dinner parties, max, and I’ll have half the collection in pieces. Does your husband still hang onto his own shitty pottery from childhood? That monkey’s toast within 15 minutes of my arrival. Grammy still have that velvet Elvis painting? Ok, so, I’ll take that one off your hands for free. I am still decorating, after all. (This nesting shit is the tits.)
Rates negotiable. Apply within.