A Brief Excursion Through The Shallows

My inlaws are in town and between entertaining family and my manic redecorating urges I just haven’t had time to write witty prose. I apologize.

If we don't abuse them they really don't feel like they've visited.

If we don’t abuse them they really don’t feel like they’ve visited.

However I thought that to tide you all over I would include a list of some of the thoughts that have graced my cerebral cortex over the past week–just a sampling of what it’s like to be inside my skull. You should be warned that some of these thoughts are inappropriate. Many are disturbing and nonsensical. Some of you might not want to know me this well.

Ready? Alrighty, here we go:

  • I’d be funnier if I was English…or black…or English and black…or is that like putting the positive sides of two batteries together?

  • When I die I won’t be able to suck in my stomach. I’m going to look bloated and saggy. I hope I don’t die naked.

  • What if I die in a public place and then everyone sees me crap myself and I’m not around to explain that I don’t normally do that?

  • How would I ever date again now that I’m so gassy? What if I found love again but the guy was offended by farting? I think Hubs will be my only husband. If he dies I’ll live alone and make pottery.

  • Is my face too old for my hair?

  • Is my face too old for my dance moves?

  • I should get derma planing. But what if they accidentally stabbed my eye and then everyone would know that I lost an eye because I was vain?

  • What if I got a boob job and died on the table and then my kids would always think that boobs were more important to me than they were?

  • Is my vagina attractive enough to do porn? What makes a vagina attractive enough to do porn? Is that a thing? Maybe anyone with a vagina can do porn.

  • What if I was decapitated and then my face looked like one of those sad Nixon rubber masks?

  • If I ever have to have chemo and lose my hair everyone will see all of the bumps on my head. I’d have to get a wig. I hate wigs. I hope I don’t get cancer in the summer.

  • Do I have too many moles to wear a backless gown to the Oscars?

  • Will the rats in the heating ducts give us all the Hanta Virus? Would Hubs get into trouble if he had to shoot one? What makes a suburban rat shooting legally justified? How do you repair bullet holes in hardwood floors?

  • What if I’m on a road trip and break down in a place where I can earn the money for my car repair by winning a pole dancing contest but I’m not wearing nice underwear? Or I’m bloated?

  • What if I’m in a car accident while on my period and I fall into a coma and then I get toxic shock because no one takes out my tampon?

  • What if my heart stops and they have to use the paddles but they forget to take out my nose ring and it burns off my nostril?

  • If I had to run for my life without any clothes on how would I contain the jiggle? I should become a self defense bad@ss so I never have to run for my life naked.

So there you have it: some of my thoughts. Yes, I worry too much about things that will probably never happen. And yes, I am at times alarmingly morbid, vain and shallow. I have occasionally endeavored to cut down on the sheer quantity of garbage that floats through my head. But then I worry that I’d be boring or, even worse, so happy and peaceful that I’d die like in Downton Abbey or that movie City of Angels. As a responsible parent I can’t let that happen. My children need me: f*cked up but alive.

I'm sensing a theme in these pictures

Torture is love.

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The Edit Button

You might not know this about me, but I can sometimes be funny. You’re shocked, I know, but it’s true.

One of the reasons for this phenomenon is that I have a twisted point of view. I see comedy in just about everything. Sometimes that comedy might be considered inappropriate and best kept to one’s self.

The other reason is that my internal edit button, the one that is responsible for filtering out potentially offensive or off-color thoughts before they enter into conversation, doesn’t work very well. So whatever inappropriate comedy is born out of my twisted cerebral cortex often rolls right out of my mouth. Sometimes it’s funny to other people as well. Sometimes not.

This has obvious drawbacks. I run the risk of offending people and sometimes misrepresenting myself as an insensitive, drunk, white trash whore. I try to remember to edit myself when in mixed company or when trying to make a good impression, but sometimes my edit button shuts off on its own. Often at unfortunate times. The larger the audience, the deeper I will insert my foot. In graduate school I became semi-famous for it (meaning I was well-known within a half mile radius of the conservatory front doors.)

Usually I have better luck with this when I’m writing, because it takes longer to type offensive thoughts than it does to say them, which gives my edit button time to engage and say, “what the feck did you just write? You were raised better than that, Missy. Go ahead and tap that delete button. In fact, just lean on it for a solid minute.”

But sometimes my edit button doesn’t engage and things slip by.

For instance, yesterday I was tweeting (as I do from time to time in an effort to reconnect with the 14-year-old girl inside me) and I wrote:

On its own, not at all offensive. Unless you are offended by bad grammar and punctuation. Unfortunately I felt the need to add this little tag:

Remorse immediately set in. I was appalled by my own lack of tact. And the fact that I misrepresented myself as some sort of morally bankrupt cannibal (as opposed to the ethical cannibals, who only eat Fair Trade people and mentor young cannibals in their spare time.)

I’m pro-homeless. Which is not to say that I’m for people being without homes. I simply support their right to exist without being made an appetizer. Love thy neighbor. Don’t eat thy neighbor. Even if your neighbor is passed out on the sidewalk. (That last part might not technically be in the Bible, but I’m fairly confident that it’s implied.)

I tried to right my wrong with a follow-up Tweet.

But really, how do you bounce back once you’ve advocated cannibalizing the disenfranchised? I really ought to fix that edit button.

**Note: If you happen to be familiar with the news story that inspired my tasteless Tweet about the nude gentleman who was shot and killed by police while snacking on the face of a homeless man, you should know that his girlfriend has gone on record as saying that he was a sweet man who often carried around a Bible and did not do hard drugs.

He sounds nice. Perhaps he was also having trouble with his edit button.

“My edit button tells me not to eat brains.” (image via dreamstime)