Christmastime in the Emerald City











{September 10, 2007}   Today’s Menu: All Over My Shirt.

Okay, today’s post is not going to be a poignant expose on the fucktardery of others. In all fairness, and to show that I am only a hypocrite some of the time, today’s post is about how I am a fucktard.

Why am I a fucktard?

Because although I can get myself seriously inebriated to the point of not remembering a failed effort at cooking (finding said food in a thankfully cold pan the next morning and thinking ‘I don’t remember that….’) or even an entire night’s events and manage to do so without knocking over a glass or making a complete ass of myself, it is apparently too much for my motor sensory system to drink a fucking cup of coffee without getting it all over myself.

Or anything for that matter. Put a glass of Disarrono on the rocks in my hands and I’m as graceful as a fucking gazelle. Put a large cup of Maple Mocha Whatchamahoositz in my hand, and it will invariably end up in my crotch. Nachos too. I love nachos, but for some reason, the ions in my general chest area just seem to be statically charged in such a way to bring that plasti-cheeze stuff right into my cleavage. And now, thanks to Quantum Fetish Mechanics, there is now very likely a website dedicated to just such an event. Wonderful.

Soup. Everywhere. Especially pea soup. And it’s always inversely shaded with my clothing for maximum stain potential. Black bean soup only happens on a white skirt day. Pea soup only happens when I’m wearing the darkest of clothing for that extra chalky effect. Awesome.

We are not discussing pasta. Ever.

How the hell do I manage to be such a slob? Perhaps I function so well with alcohol (as long as it isn’t wine) that my motor skills drop to the level of a third grader without it. Do I need to start sucking back the coolers at work to keep from getting bagel all over my face? Do I need training wheels on my latte? What gives?

Other than this, I am not very clumsy. I do not walk into doors. I do not drop things. I do not fall down stairs. I do not trip oh-so-elegantly into the arms of some handsome stranger. I’m more than likely to let the door I’m walking through swing back into the face of that handsome stranger and let him take a tumble. I can walk in six inch fucking heels and not bat an eyelash. But for some frigging reason, I seem to have this subconscious desire to smear food and drink all over myself in some sort of clothing-caloric orgy.

I’m not sure why this is. Perhaps, despite the fact that I seem to be an undateable neurotic weirdo (though that may have more to do with my intimidating ‘Ghengis Khunt’ status), my inner female goddess or whatever somehow knows the divine secrets of ultimate male long-term attraction.

What guy wouldn’t want a girlfriend whose boobies smell like pizza?

Um….yeah.

😦

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Maytina says:

I can’t explain but, but I can identify. To some extent anyway. I wear black to the point of being mistaken as a goth many, many, many times because I know the coffee will end up on my shirt so I gave up on wearing colours, so I know how much that sucks but unforch I am a clumsy person. I’m a clumsy person who is only clumsy when it results in being injured, many trips to the emergency room in my adult life over things most 12 year old would be laughing at me over.



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