Ruminations
Someone needs to tell all our mothers that we have already seen any and every Youtube video they might consider sending us.
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I hate when I make a big stink over figuring out where I recognize an actor from, only to realize it's something I can't admit I've seen. "Oh, he was the star of New York Minute? Hm, nope, couldn't possibly be that...oh, eureka, here it is, he was College Student in a 2005 episode of CSI: El Paso. I knew I'd get it eventually!"
Why do I keep going to dance clubs and lounges, when I know I would sooner die than go out with a guy who likes dance clubs and lounges?
How much does it suck, when you and your friends are discussing how sweet it would be to throw a party for/dress up as/break into/make a drinking game about/get arrested for something awesome, and you realize you're the only one who's serious about actually doing it? It's like, come on guys, man up and wear Three Amigos costumes on the plane with me. It'll make a great story!
I think everyone has a movie that they love so much, it actually becomes stressful to watch it with other people. I'll end up wasting 90 minutes shiftily glancing around to confirm that everyone's laughing at the right parts, then making sure I laugh just a little bit harder (and a millisecond earlier) to prove that I'm still the only one who really, really gets it.
I hate how every time I'm about to win a heated argument, the other person tries to bail out with something like "woah, whatever, it's not that big a deal, relax." Fuck you, you just realized I was right! And either way I'm still planning on proving it via wikipedia the second I get home.
Remember whining "I'm never actually gonna have to use this in real life" when we learned math? I wonder how long it'll take for kids to start saying that about learning to write.
I think every female sports fan believes deep down that she's the only one who isn't faking it to impress guys.
Catching my mom in a bad mood gives me the same feeling as seeing sirens in my rearview mirror. I'm not doing anything wrong right now, but still...is this about me? Just exactly what do you know?
I'd be a lot better at crossword puzzles if someone had told me long ago that a question mark in the clue really just means "...this one's kind of a stretch."
If I don't like you and you lose weight, I'm gonna go ahead and assume you're on drugs.
I wish I put a little less thought into the emails I send my boss, which he deletes without reading, and a little more thought into my 2am text messages, which always seem to make permanent homes for themselves in my friends' inboxes.
The first football game I ever watched was the 1996 Super Bowl, and I remember noticing my dad and brother shouting things at the screen in disbelief. I figured that to fit in, I'd better just incredulously yell out the next set of numbers that appeared on screen. In retrospect, there's really nothing surprising about seeing "3rd, 15:00" at the start of the second half.
I just dropped something and caught it before it hit the ground. It was miraculous. So let me get this straight: sober, our reflexes are actually quicker than gravity, but 2 martinis and we can't even raise an arm to avoid getting clobbered in the face by a revolving door?
Nothing makes me want to break for the door faster than getting caught laughing at someone else's inside joke. But still, is there a bigger dick on the planet than the guy who actually notices and says "wait, why do YOU think that's funny?"
Going out after getting dumped is like grocery shopping when you're hungry: you choose what seems satisfying at the time, and you end up going home with something cheap, bad for you, and probably pretty fatty.
I hate being held accountable for the comments I make just to fill silence. If I say something like "yeah, he's weird," please don't hit me with "What do you mean? Weird how? Did he say something?" My god, I have no idea who you're even talking about. Can't you see I've been reading old texts the entire time you were speaking?
I think part of a best friend's job should be to immediately clear your computer history if you die.
I wonder if it was sheer luck or marketing genius that Bacardi made a rum that happens to rhyme with one of the most commonly used words in rap songs. Think of the exposure I'd get if I came out with "Bacwenty inch rims" vodka.
I hate when you black out and then have to spend the next day dancing around conversations to try and hide it: "Hey, I haven't seen you in forever!" "Nope, we talked for 45 minutes last night." "Right, I remember. Well happy birthday by the way!" "Thanks, you had the entire bar sing to me at midnight." "Yeah, just kidding. Guess I still owe you a beer though!" "I'm good, yesterday you tried to pay for mine with a Starbucks card." Okay, wise guy. I'm going back to bed.
I would never eat spoonfuls of just butter and sugar, but throw in a couple raw eggs and some chocolate chips and suddenly it's "dough." Preheat the oven? That won't be necessary. I've never had salmonella in my life and I thoroughly enjoy rolling those dice.
When I'm making a credit-card purchase I'm proud of, I'll devote a good ten seconds to making my signature graceful and professional. When I'm not, I like to get it over with as fast as possible. The bank must think my identity is being stolen by a seven-year-old with three fingers who can somehow spend $13.50 at Finagle a Bagel.
I often lament how it seems like there's one eligible member of the opposite sex for every 100 people like me. And we're judged on the most immature, obscure factors. And every so often, unsuitable people are given a free pass just for being good-looking. It just dawned on me: life is one big episode of Singled Out.
I'm sick of trying to keep track of which course of action is required to get each of my friends to call me back. A missed call should be seen as the equivalent of "Hey it's Sarah, just wondering what you're up to, call me when you get a chance." Unless it's after 2am on a weekend, then let's just forget it.
All internet security questions should have definitive answers, like "town of birth" or "father's middle name." Honestly, things like "favorite book" just force me to try to figure out which lie I told myself that day so I didn't have to write "ESPN The Magazine."
Rather than losing weight because I'm buying my own meals now, I could be headed in the opposite direction. It's amazing the amount of low-quality food I'm willing to shove down my gullet now that I see every wasted morsel as tomorrow's potential beer, coffee, or gallon of gas.
If my $400 ticket is paying for the jet fuel for you to "circle around over Philadelphia until the runway is clear," then give me a fucking free beverage. The three idiots who will actually fork over two bucks for a tablespoon of tomato juice are not going to save your business.
I wasn't going to vote, but over fifteen of my friends changed their facebook status, so I guess I have no choice.
Every single time I played with a Ouija board, I was the one moving it. Listen, someone has to, okay? This is Earth.
I've never been great at picking up on euphemisms. I'm pretty sure if I ever get told "I'm going to let you go," I'll go, "Sweet! Half day!" Then I'll trot home and return the next morning, lunch in hand, only to get royally burned like Billy Madison on his first day of school.
Why do TV characters who are supposed to be broke never repeat clothes - even coats and shoes? Just saying, personally, I'm pretty sure I'll be worth 6 figures before I stop wearing my marshmallow jacket over ball gowns.
While I'm fine with the fact that I no longer talk to anyone from grade school, I find myself praying that news of my minor successes makes it back to them somehow. It just doesn't sit well knowing that there are 30 people out there somewhere who still know me as the girl who accidentally called our first grade teacher "Mom."
It might be time to take a look at your life when you have the following exchange: "Is that guy your boyfriend?" "Nooo." "Oh so you're casually dating?" "Not really." "Got it, friends with benefits?" "Umm...'friends' might be overstating it. Is there a notch lower?"
Magazines need to stop telling us that a good way to cut calories is to stop drinking. First of all, we're well aware of that option and we all ruled it out long ago. Second, half the time those calories don't end up getting digested anyway. And finally, what's the point of having a good body if you never have the courage to take your clothes off?
Okay, I'm sorry, but Caleb from the OC, Bradford from Ugly Betty, Mr. Widmore from Lost, the VP from 24...are you seriously on Entourage now?
I just read a paper essentially confirming that in order to learn something new, you have to forget something you once knew. Okay...all the lyrics to "What's Your Fantasy?" You're dismissed.
I complain extra hard when I'm sick to make up for all those hangovers when I've had to keep my mouth shut.
Whatever happened to the "unsend" button from old AOL? It's like the programmers of the world all decided, "we can't avoid looking like geeks, why should they get to avoid looking like jerks?"
I love watching TV shows online. But by the time I've sat through all six commercial breaks trying to find where the hell I was when I fell asleep last night, I can manage to listen to about 3 minutes with my eyes closed before I'm out again. At this rate, I'll be done just in time for the premiere of the third 90210 series.
It's amazing how quickly "I absolutely must buy shampoo tomorrow" loses meaning the instant you step out of the shower.
The two things I miss most about childhood are Hot Wheels in my happy meals and the legitimacy of "no backsies."
You know what was always so fun? Pretending to come up with the answers to those insanely obscure riddles we told as kids, when clearly you've just heard it before... "I get one yes-or-no question? Okay, did he maybe, stand on a block of something and wait for it to melt and when it disappeared he had hanged himself? Yeah, thought so. Come on, give me a hard one!"
When being introduced to someone, I'd really appreciate being told upfront if I should care. Otherwise, it's inevitably: "This is Bill." (Great, good for Bill, leave me alone.) "He'll be your new boss." (Crap. What the fuck was that guy's name again?)
My goal in life is to write a sitcom so good it gets canceled.
As a general rule, the more I enjoy something, the worse it is for me. That's why stale cookies are the ultimate smack in the face.
Enough already with the obscure baseball statistics. I don't know how those poor announcers feign enthusiasm each time. They're like, "First time since 2007 that a playoff game has been played on October 13th...ah...remarkable."
Another phrase that means the exact opposite when coming from a boss or a girlfriend: "I can't force you..."
I get the feeling radio commercials are deliberately peppy and melodic so we won't notice the transition from music to ads...I always find myself being like, "woah, how long have I been listening to this shit without changing the station? And why do I suddenly feel like leasing a Mazda?"
When will I learn that deleting my outbox/dialed calls doesn't make the next morning's regret go away? Sometimes I feel like drinking makes me regress to the time when a clever hide-and-seek tactic was crouching in plain view with my hands over my own eyes.
Giving a presentation on my laptop, I was unaware that I had auto-signed in to AIM with yesterday's away message "Where the fuck is the remote?" When some kid IMed me, PowerPoint minimized and I had to nosedive across the room to get "Did you check your butt?" off the screen. Thanks asshole, out of context your horrible 5th-grade joke becomes an APB to the entire room that I must be in dire need of a proctologist.
Isn't it weird to think that, for a while, the time you lost your virginity was the best sex you ever had?
Being the drunkest kid at the bar is like being the goalie in foosball. It's nearly impossible to score, you get blamed whenever something goes wrong, and all you can see in front of you are rows and rows of identical-looking guys.
If the car behind me makes the same turn I do twice in a row, no doubt in my mind: I'm being followed.
Doesn't it seem cruel (to both sides) that alcohol makes guys want sex more and more, while simultaneously rendering them less and less capable of actually having it?
Few things are scarier than being the leader of the traffic pack and being only about 70% sure that street isn't one-way...
How come when someone tells me that a person I'm about to meet is "funny," I immediately take that as a challenge?