Reasons I'll Need Therapy


In any way, shape, or form
Kthxbai
Moms' night out
Put a bug in his ear
Just sayin'
Woot
I'm not going to lie...
Epic fail
Where are you at?
Awesomesauce
Pick your brain
I can haz _____?
I heart you
Internets
Teh Internets
Ridonculous
If you will
Old school
I'm so blessed
Peace (when someone uses it as their sign-off in an email, like "Talk to you soon. Peace, Holly")
Coming down the pike
So be it

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I'm heading to Phoenix tomorrow for a brief work trip, and when I say it's a brief work trip, I do literally mean that I will be there less than 24 hours. In fact, I have just done the Plane Math (not to be confused with the Plain Math, although truthfully it was only adding and subtracting, so it was actually pretty plain) and it turns out that I will be in Phoenix for a grand total of seventeen and a half hours, eight of which (I hope) I will be asleep for.

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May
11
2010

Prepare To Itch

I've become obsessed with bedbugs. I blithely followed a link on Twitter the other day (thanks a lot, METALIA) that led me to this horrifying article---honestly, try reading that without itching for three days afterwards---and now I can't stop thinking about them. There are far more pleasant things to think about, I know, and yet I cannot train my brain to think about them (cupcakes, sparkles, Jordan Catalano in a plaid shirt, COME ON BRAIN DO IT).

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Internet, sometimes something so wonderful happens that I cannot stop myself from sharing it with you immediately. I'm not talking about getting engaged or buying a house or any of that big life stuff. I'm talking simply about this magnificent email my sister forwarded me from the halls of residence administration at her university.

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I got some weird looks this morning as I walked from my desk to the office kitchen. And then I got a few more when I walked from my desk to the office bathroom.

Awesome, I thought. I have a poppy seed from that bagel stuck in my teeth. Either that or my dress is tucked into my tights at the back again. I was even wearing the same dress.

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It occurred to me recently that I am forever singing the praises of things I like, but---with the exception of that horrible nasty sorbet that hoodwinked me last year---I rarely remember to write about the things I don't like, the things I think I'll like which then end up letting me down.

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Feb
22
2010

Salad Days

If there's one thing I'm not good at*, it's making snap decisions. No, I am definitely a girl who likes to prepare. This becomes a trifle inconvenient when I need to calculate a tip, and even worse when I take a taxi or have food delivered and need to calculate a tip on demand. Have you ever tried to do math under pressure? While being watched to see if you're carrying the one and/or conveying the correct amount of respect---via a percentage of your total bill, of course---for the plight of the poor deliveryperson? It's daunting. Or at least it's daunting for me.

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I think I could live in America for the rest of my life and I would still not really understand Groundhog Day. It catches me off guard every year. I'll be making polite small talk about the weather with someone in an elevator or a shop and all of a sudden they'll smile and say jovially "well, they say we've got six more weeks of winter left, of course!"

And I'll blink and look confused and think wait, did I miss something on the Weather Channel?

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Friends, I have found the chink in my armor. It's not that I can't do a cartwheel or burp on command or count to five on my fingers without inadvertently putting the pinkie before the ring finger EVERY SINGLE TIME, none of which I have ever been able to do. No, the chink in my armor is that I cannot make homemade pizza. I have failed miserably at making homemade pizza on every occasion that I've tried it, tonight being no exception.

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I should probably tell you right now that this story is going to be a little bit gross. If you have eyes, and I assume you do, the odds are fairly high that you are going to squinch them shut quite suddenly while reading it, not unlike a man who flinches and subconsciously reaches protectively for his testicles whenever he stumbles across the word "castration." This story has to do with eyes you see, my eyes in particular, and people have sort of a thing about eyes.

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