1. I have approximately 18 million zits on my face. That entirely depends on how many pores my face has, as I’m pretty sure each pore right now constitutes a zit. My face is, without a doubt, I giant talking, walking, whining, crying, puking, zit.
You’re welcome for that image.
2. Also, I’m not popular. No one likes my blog. I know that seems ridiculous, but after obsessively stalking the blogs of my peers and contemporaries and mentors, I’ve realized that I’m just not up to snuff. My writing isn’t funny enough. My punch lines don’t knock you out. My boobs aren’t big enough. I’ll never reach 50 likes on a post just because, let alone 70, or 80, or 100. WHY DO I CARE ABOUT NUMBERS, I CAN’T EVEN COUNT! Whatever. I can’t keep up with how funny everyone else is. I WILL NEVER BE SO FUNNY. JUST KILL ME NOW AND SCATTER MY ASHES IN FRANK.
In all honesty, it’s probably my Youngest Child Syndrome coming through. I NEED MOAR ATTENTION. This is where my internet siblings come and give me a noogie and put me in my place.
3. I’m about 95% sure my right butt cheek is bigger than my left. I know for a FACT that my left chesticle is bigger–I’ve decided that’s because it protects my heart. What the hell does my right butt cheek protect? Maybe a secret pocket of poo that hasn’t come out yet? A large, atomic bomb-sized fart? Is it insulating my sacroiliac joint to make it more difficult to throw out my back? Is it because that’s the cheek that get’s goosed more often, so it has built up a resistance? DO I HAVE A BUTT TUMOR? Oh, god. I’m going to die from a butt tumor in my right cheek. What is happening to me. Someone pet my hair while I vomit into Frank.
4. I make up dumb excuses for everything. I’ve been sitting on my phone (on the left cheek) with the number of someone who interned at The Colbert Report, whose family has connections at the show, and I’m too much of a chicken to call him. Why? Because WHAT IF IT TURNS OUT WELL?! WHAT IF I GET IT?! WHAT IF I DON’T?! WHAT IF I CAN’T SAY ANYTHING INTERESTING?! WHAT DO I DO WITH MY HANDS WHILE I AM ON THE PHONE?! Oh my god, I’m having a panic attack. Someone pet my hair while I vomit into Frank.
5. I am a Fall Back Girl. I’m reading a book about dating unavailable people and how doing so means I’m unavailable, and what I’ve realized is I’m an awful person to date, and I’m going to die alone surrounded by sixty dogs and sixty empty Franks littering the garden, waiting for me to hug them while I vomit into each one at a different time of day. I do this to feed the sixty dogs. I must also be eating a LOT of chocolate chips and mangoes to make this happen. Wait, I can’t even do that. It would kill the dogs. Oh, man. Not only am I a terrible person to date, I’m a terrible future-sixty-dog-owner. I CAN’T DO ANYTHING RIGHT.
6. I have a perpetual wedgie. I blame my butt tumor. Or the fact that I seemingly only wear underwear that is meant to lodge itself firmly against all of my privates and leave the cheeks exposed. I should probably buy new underwear. I would like to own more superhero ones, those fully cover my deranged butt (because, you know, if my butt is exposed whilst fighting crime, everyone will immediately know who I am). But the perpetual wedgie gives Frank easier access to the body part he loves most… And who am I to deny my true love the gratification he so desperately seeks? Frank is an ass-man. It was love at first dump.
These are just today’s insecurities. The more I write about them, the more I realize they are ridiculous, but also true. It’s like I’m staring into the face of the person I love only to realize I’m really only staring into the eyes of a Furby. And I’m terrified of furbies, but also strangely attracted to them. I know they are ridiculous, yet I am also aware that they are occasionally causing my heart rate to rise and my blood pressure to spike. But when I write about them, when I dissect them for my faithful readers, it helps me realize just how obnoxious my brain is, and that, in fact, I’m not as terrible a person as I think I am.
Frank is a lucky, lucky man. I’ve
got the runs gotta run.