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Look, sometimes you just don’t know what the capital of whatever-the-fuck random country is, and you’re stuck in a car on a road trip or something, and you don’t have access to an encyclopedia, and if you just knew that one answer you could get a hint about that other clue, the one about that thing you know you learned in high school but you can’t remember what it was, so you flip to the back of the book and find the answer you’re looking for.
I was going to say, “In my defense, I’ve gotten really good at ignoring the rest of the solution and only finding the answer I need,” but who am I kidding, there really is no defending this stupid behavior. I should be ashamed of myself.
I’m not, of course.
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I’ve been told that hating peanut butter is morally questionable at best and un-American at worst. Who the fuck doesn’t like peanut butter? I mean, if you like peanuts, what’s wrong with peanut butter, you fucking weirdo?
Well, I never liked it. I especially never liked it with chocolate. I have never enjoyed a Reese’s cup in my life (I’ll take my sweet and salty separately, thank you). I especially do not like peanut butter ice cream, peanut butter cookies, or (ugh!) peanut butter cake. I hate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, too. But peanut butter never grossed me out until about ten years ago.
When I was 13ish, and my sister was around five years old, she would eat peanut butter by the spoonful and toss the PB-smothered spoon into a pot soaking in the sink. She’d do this in the morning, and I’d get to it when I did the dishes after dinner. Have you ever encountered peanut butter that’s been soaking in soapy water for like eight hours? It is the foulest-smelling, most disgusting substance on earth. It was my responsibility to smear this water-logged paste off the spoon. Mine and mine alone. First world problem? Yeah, whatever.
There. That’s it. That’s why the smell of peanut butter makes me gag. The idea of it in my mouth, sticky and gooey, clinging to my palate…I…you know, I don’t have the words for it. Just writing this is making me want to puke. Fuck this.
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I have heard that people who use Twitter are lame attention whores who broadcast to the entire world the pointless minutiae of their middle-class lives in a desperate attempt to make their run-of-the-mill, hollow existences meaningful.
This is completely true. The only thing I like more than pretending I am interested in what other people have to say is pretending that these people are interested in what I have to say. It’s like instant messaging the entire world at once. It’s like LiveJournal for the extremely concise. It’s like Facebook’s News Feed if Facebook gave you the option to receive an up-to-the-minute play-by-play of Balloon Boy’s whereabouts.
Plus, Andrew WK tells me to party hard like three times a day. It’s the only motivation I need in life.
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I don’t know what it is about Keystone that I like so much. I was just criticized for it last week. Someone’s going to the liquor store? Do I have a request? I do! “Six pack of Keystone,” I say. Every time. A personal party for $4? Yes, please!
I actually like the taste, though, and that’s what this post is about. I literally fucking like drinking this beer. It’s refreshing. It’s inoffensive. It doesn’t taste vaguely of vomit. I usually would rather drink a Keystone than a beer that’s actually good.
Well, maybe not, but at least it’s better than PBR.
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It’s like 2:00 in the morning and I really wanted to get to bed early so I could get up at 8:30 and shower before class but I was hungry, okay, I was hungry and I knew I had a Stouffer’s White Meat Chicken Pot Pie in the freezer, so I decided to cook it and eat it, and it’s really good, and I don’t care how bad for me it is, okay, I just really fucking enjoy this pot pie right now.
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I’m pretty sure The Godfather is about the Mafia.
Then again, I can’t be positive about that, because I’ve never seen it. Conversational references to this iconic film routinely go flying over my head, and I’m always left looking like an uncultured idiot. I don’t even want to think about how many prospective boyfriends have lost interest after saying, “I’ll make him an offer he can’t refuse!” and seeing my blank, confused face.
I guess it’s something that just never came up. It’s not like my parents ever watched it at home. I’ve never seen it on TV. My friends aren’t going to hold a Godfather movie night, and I don’t have a Blockbuster card or, let’s be honest, any desire to see this fucking movie.
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I’m 23 years old, my mom was into computers, and I didn’t have friends growing up, so it’s safe to say that I’m pretty familiar with the Internet at this point in my life. My first foray into talking about myself to complete strangers was on Prodigy bulletin boards in 1993, when I was six or seven years old. I made a friend with a name similar to mine and proudly told her that my toothbrush had Yogi Bear on it.
Sixteen years later, I am still sharing minutiae with people I have never met. I have absolutely no qualms about this behavior, and nothing short of death will stop me from running my mouth on the World Wide Web. Some people may find this obnoxious, but I like to think that everyone’s interested in what I have to say.
