Goings On

OUCH

I got a wedgie while I was on the train this morning. One minute I was sitting there sleepily reading War and Peace and then suddenly, before I could even realize what was happening, my underpants had launched themselves into the nether regions of my behind. I have a high tolerance for pain, but this was the type of wedgie that forces you to question the existence of God. It was making me woozy. The problem was that I was sharing the seat with some guy, and I was worried about what he would think if I started lurching around grabbing at myself in ways known to be inappropriate. So I just sat there, suffering and trying to shift imperceptibly as I prayed that somehow my underpants would find their way out by themselves.

A couple of stops later, the guy got off and I was able to extricate myself out of the situation by pretending to be searching for something in my briefcase while ‘scratching’ the lower part of my back. I can’t figure out why I’m always getting wedgies. I don’t wear especially skimpy underwear. I think I may just have an overly permissive butt crack.

Imagine what crazy stuff would pop-up if you Googled the phrase ‘permissive butt crack.’ No, you do it.

GRAND ANCESTRY

I’m related to this guy. He’s my great-great-great-great-great grandfather or something along those lines and would probably have been fun to go on a three-day bender with. He was the person that came up with the idea of using laughing gas as anesthesia being apparently inspired by his addiction to said gas. He had a lot of other achievements, but I guess my point is that I think it’s interesting when addicts function at such a high level. You know, like Keith Richards or Hunter S. Thompson or my kick-ass ancestors. I mean these are highly productive people that have made significant contributions to society. Typically it seems like having an addiction implies that you’re debilitated in some way. Or sick. And typically this would be true. I guess I don’t really know what I’m trying to say. I just like it when a vastly talented person seems to not only be able to function despite being under the influence, but seems to be reveling in it and kicking life’s proverbial ass because of it.

I don’t know why I enjoy that. I’m not even capable of smoking a cigarette. The hardest drugs I’ve tampered with are alcohol. Mostly beer. Occasionally wine or vodka and, when the shit really goes down, whisky. That’s right. I’m awesome because I’m good at drinking! The folks that are pro making marajauna/other narcotics legal in the US should consider using those guys as their argument for all of the positive effects drugs have had on our society. Or something.

I’m just saying is all.

I
AM
SOFA
KING
WE
TODD
DID

My best friend’s little sister thinks I’m retarded. I’m not lying. I received a head injury from a car accident when I was really young. You wouldn’t know it by looking at me unless I told you.

Stop looking at me.

Pretty much the only lasting effect of the whole incident is that I was left with horrifyingly bad hand-eye coordination. My mother claims that this may not have been caused by the accident, but more likely was caused by the unathletic genes passed down on my Father’s side. I totally disagree. I’m sure that I was terrifically agile the first couple months of my life. I may have even had the potential to compete in the Olympics. Or the WNBA. Or rec league volleyball. Whatever.

Anyway, back to my friend’s little sister. We’ve all known each other since we were kids and there’s no doubt that I was one of those children that took some time to develop. Yeah, I’ll say it. It took me awhile to learn how to read. I didn’t get all S’s* on my kindergarten report card. I had to go to speech therapy for a couple of years. But, no worries, I caught up, graduated with honors from high school and got into a terrific college. On academic scholarship. I’m not bragging – I’m just telling you because I’m insecure.

*In my elementary school getting an ‘S’ on your report card met Satisfactory. It was the highest score you could get.

Back to the story …

So one year I’m on vacation with my friend’s family at the Gulf of Mexico and my friend, her two sisters and I are all hanging out at the pool. I’m about sixteen years old and busy trying to flirt with some guy. Here’s a visual: It’s about ten at night, we’re all sitting around the pool, and just yards away is the beach with the sand and everything that goes with it. You know, the dark expanse of the ocean filled with lord knows what swimming around in it. Gorgeous. The waves are making a huge ruckus because the tide is busy coming in, which makes it tough to hear what people are saying. The guy is telling me a joke and I tell him that I didn’t hear the punch line. He starts teasing me about it, saying that really I just didn’t get the joke because I’m dumb, and, this is kind of sweet actually, my best friend’s little sister yells at him for calling me dumb. Tells him that I can’t help it because I’m brain damaged. She was trying to protect me.

That doesn’t take away from the fact, though, that she thinks I’m mentally retarded.

This morning while I was suffering through the wedgie ordeal, it occurred to me that maybe I really am retarded. What if I was so profoundly retarded that I just think I’m riding the train on the way to my job as an Accountant, but really I’m not? What if the reality was me lying on top of the old floral comforter covering my bed at my parent’s house compulsively rocking back and forth? Over and over. All throughout the day. Everday

What if?

But then I thought, no way in hell. Even if I was living in a retarded fantasy world, surely I’d still be way cooler than this. Surely I’d be able to come up with something better than riding a train on my way to an eight-hour day spent mulling over spreadsheets. No way, dude. I’d be some sort of a crime fighting ninja wizard, or something cool like that and no way would wedgies even exist.

Yeah.

- Elliptical Elbows and Knees