LOL, NSFW
I am blessed to know many very, very funny people. A lot of them live in my gchat*, and talk to me when I should be sleeping, eating, working, or pumping iron. Often, something they say makes me laugh, and I tell them.
“Oh my god, I just laughed so hard I gagged on my coffee.”
“I just snorted in this quiet cafe. Thanks, asshole.”
“That made me LOL for a solid ten seconds.”
Each time I do this, though, it feels uncomfortably like the comedy equivalent of cybersex. Because it’s the same thing, right? You’re essentially live-blogging your own physical reactions for another person’s benefit.
“Hey, girl. Tell me how hard I made you laugh. Mm, yeah.”
“You laughed until your coffee did what? [heavy breathing]”
“Mmmm, tell me more about falling out of your chair.”
This is a feeling I’ve had for years.
I just floated all this by my (very funny) friend Linda. Her response:
“Ugh. You just made ‘lol’ gross.”
Well, now I’ve ruined it for everyone. You’re welcome!
*(I literally mean “inside the program”, because I was a liberal arts major, and this is where my technology comprehension ends.)
[M]y favorite thing was a woman in Italy said to me, “Which do you think has done more for women’s equality and emancipation, the vibrator or the dishwasher?
Thank You for Neither Seeing Something Nor Saying Something.
I spent an impulsive $50 on books at Shakespeare and Co., then sat at the 68th Street Station grasping after my thought-butterflies before they could get away. The train arrived and I chased one on board, batting the air after it. About three stops later, I looked down and realized I didn’t have my Shakespeare and Co. bag.
My $50. My three books I was really excited about reading. The tampons I’d bought at CVS.
God. Damnit.
I got off the train and transferred back uptown, unraveling but trying to keep my shit on lockdown. (“They’re probably gone; let’s all just breathe.” “Fucking shitballs, I’m pissed.”)
I raced-nonraced back to the platform, where I found my little bag slumped exactly where I’d left it. I picked it up and hugged it, when it dawned on me: my panic was cute but unnecessary. This bag was never in danger.
Nobody wants books.
I screamed ‘CONGRATULATIONS’ to keep from screaming ‘YOU FUCKING BITCH.’
…I’m actually really thankful it came out as ‘Congratulations.’
“
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My friends are socially graceful as shit.
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The Bus and Oyster
Occasionally, my mom will look at me like I’m a little bird she likes, but doesn’t understand how she hatched.
A few years ago she told me, “You know, you’re the first person I’ve ever met who likes the way certain words sound.” This seemed like a shock to me. You mean not everybody corrects grammar in the grocery store? We don’t all have to sleep with our dictionaries? We don’t all keep our toothbrushes facing Southwest at all times, or risk enraging fate?
Kidding. There’s nothing diagnosably wrong with me (I think.) But I’m still baffled at my mom’s bafflement. Don’t most of us roll good words around our mouths like rocks in a rock tumbler? Or is that just me?
For instance, one of my favorite instant-comedy words is “bus.” Something is inherently funny about buses. “My dog got hit by a car” is sad; “my dog got hit by a bus” is hilarious. (Uh, and, uh, I’m sorry for your loss.)
Today I stumbled back on another favorite: “Oyster.” The word “oyster” is just pretty, even though the thing itself is not. “Oy-” alone reminds me of early punk, or perhaps a middle-aged-man’s exhalation of regret. “-Ster” reminds me of a speedster, or a hamster. But together, they are beautiful.
I spent today deciding that I am going to open a bar and call it The Bus and Oyster. Because that thought bubble over my head is definitely a good use of my time.
Though Tumblr makes commenting obscenely annoying, I’ll leave it open-ended: are there any words that crack you up? Are there any words you love, despite what they mean? Or should I just make a hat out of tin foil and call it a day?
Welcome back, self!
I’m a little famous IRL (IRL? What is this, 1998?) for falling off the radar for great swaths of time, then showing up at my friends’ and acquaintances’ doorsteps soaking wet at 2am, holding a dead squirrel and asking if I can crash for a few days. Just ignore my not blinking, guys! It’s only the meth talking!
Good ol’ Ruby Spurflower hit that black hole for awhile. I’d like to say I’m back for good, but I know better than to make promises. It’s not that I stopped loving you, readership of four; it’s that I had other shit to take care of. There was laughter and there were tears, but none if it was bloggable. (I’m saving those gems for my series of Young Adult Fiction, “…And Then I Got My Period.”)
Because irony loves company, I’m writing this blog post while sitting in a sweatshirt in my crumb-filled bed in what technically qualifies as “afternoon.” You know. This post proclaiming that I’m back on the track to productivity, as demonstrated through Tumblr! Starting… now… ish.
All aboard the train to functional adulthood! Woo woo!
I didn’t call because my dyscalcula was acting up
The dust bits of my Anthropology B.A. pooled together and crystallized into a thought today (as it so rarely does): as much as I lament the J.Crew-ization of Austin, it’s still quaintly small. I know this because of phone numbers. (SOCIAL SCIENCES ARE ALMOST STILL SCIENCE, SHUT UP EVERYONE, ESPECIALLY SCIENTISTS.)
In New York, if you tell someone your phone number, it’s a nine-digit marathon. You better take a deep breath before embarking, because you’ve got a bunch of numbers and at least three hyphens coming. You may have to stop halfway though and take a breather—no shame! There’s a rest station staffed with Red Cross volunteers just in case!
In smaller cities, there is no such sprinting. Driving home today, I saw a billboard for some company, and they listed their phone number in seven precious digits. Austin is still small enough to keep numbers short, because we all know (512) is implied. Why not? There’s just one area code hereabouts. Surprisingly, San Francisco is the same way.
I have adopted a weird, half-fond, half-condescending Big City attitude to this, like, “Aww, adorable cities with your short numbers. Don’t ever change, pinch-cheeks-pinch-cheeks.”
But seriously, adorable cities. Don’t change. Numbers are hard for some of us.
List of ways I will judge you (partial)
1. If your coffee order includes more than two adjectives
2. If you wear those pants that zip off into shorts
3. If you misuse the word “literally”
4. If you overuse the word “amazing”
5. If you wear heels that are so high you have to shuffle around in them
Thanks for the Lysine! And the memories. But mostly the lysine.
“Here’s the thing: I am not only a creature of civilization, I’m an asthmatic person. I will only live so long as I have stockpiled the proper inhalers. I’m effectively a cyborg. You know how in Jurassic Park, they bred those dinosaurs with the lysine deficiencies, so if they ever got off the island, they’d die? That’s me. I’m the dinosaur that’s going to die in the New World.”
-John Hodgman, via Onion AV Club interview
John Hodgman gets it. Now what to do about these teeny, tiny arms?
bohemea:
Paul Rudd
So, Seasonal Affective Disorder (or “living in a stormcloud inside a tornado inside a solitary confinement cell”) is getting me down. This picture is precisely what I needed.
