This is an Oyster Shell Recycling Drop-Off bin here in a park down from my neighborhood. The sign says they take them and put them back in the oyster reefs so other oysters can use them, ensuring that suitable habitat is available for future generations of oysters. I can dig helping nature out, so I looked for a Gin Bottle Recycling Drop-Off bin because I’m pretty sure mine alone could save the world. Sadly there was none. Sorry, world.31 Comments
Shortly after moving here I made a friend whilst out running in my idyllic oak tree-lined neighborhood. She lives one street over and she’s roughly my age and she’s really sweet and nice, and we now run/walk together twice daily. And guess what? She’s a minister’s wife! I know, right? She befriended me even though in my running gear you can see all of my satanic tattoos! And by satanic, I mean Gaelic, but in the South that means the same thing. Anyway, the bad thing is she’s a minister’s wife and I don’t mean that’s a bad thing for her, no, I mean it’s a bad thing for me because when we converse I am constantly on a self-imposed 3 second delay. Like, mentally I have to edit shit, for example: “Last night I accidentally slammed my
damn toe into a fucking chair leg and I was all “ FUCK! Oww!” Now it hurts like a motherfucker too and I can hardly fucking walk!”
So now every day, twice a day, I’m like a guy who’s on a first date and trying to make a good impression by holding in his farts until it’s painful and it hurts so much that all he can think about is taking her home and ripping ‘em all the way on the drive home. We part at the crossroads, where she goes on to her house, and I literally run, full speed to mine. I hurriedly open my door, usually fumbling with the key, and once I get in I slam the door shut, lean against it, and to no one say “Damnmotherfuckingassholebitchbastardfuckshit.”
Ahhhh, much better.36 Comments
The other day one of my neighbors invited me over for a barbecue. Yeah, apparently I hadn’t scared them all off by running down the road like a loon when I thought my cats had escaped. They told me I didn’t have to bring anything, but because I’m mannerly and shit, I figured the polite thing to do was to bring something. And since I didn’t know if they drank, beer and liquor were out. But I remembered seeing one of those fancy little cupcake shops that have sprung up everywhere (thank you, Food Network’s Cupcake Wars) in my new small town. I bought a variety pack of six, thinking it was plenty. I set them on the counter, but it wasn’t long before they were calling to me.
First Cupcake: Denial. “I didn’t eat that. Nobody saw me. No one can prove a thing.”
Second Cupcake: Anger. “Damn those fancy bakers for making cupcakes this delicious.”
Third Cupcake: Bargaining. “I will eat this and run an extra mile tomorrow.
Fourth Cupcake: Acceptance. “Fuck it. They said I didn’t have to bring anything. They’re all mine.”
Needless to say, shortly after I fell into an honest to God lose-your-foot-type diabetic coma, regaining consciousness only when Jack was licking icing off of my chin. I did make it to the barbecue. Empty-handed. And everyone commented on how I eat like a bird. A little, tiny delicate bird. *Belch*70 Comments