The first. My dear friend Aaron pushed me on probably three separate occasions to get a Twitter. I thought Twitter was kind of silly. It's just a simpler version of Facebook, which I already have. Why join yet another social network? Well, party people, I found some very funny Twitter Folks that I needed to follow. Among them: A-Town, Depressed Darth, and Sarah Nicole. I figured that if so many cool people were already in this social realm, I may as well grace them all with my presence. It's simple. It's fun. I have enjoyed my time there so far. Oh right, and if you want to, you can follow me!
Within a day of having a Twitter account, I had several absurd things occur in my life, which produced the following Tweets:
Thanks for the hair advice, Chili's server. #mindyourbusiness
If I set my gym money aside for 18 years, I could buy my own elliptical. #notencouraging
just had to jump into a dumpster to retrieve my keys. They got caught on my trash bag! #cursewords
"Excuse me, do you have any suntan lotion?" Seriously? That's the best way you can think of to talk to a girl? #lamepickuplines
#thatawkwardmoment when your bathing suit bubbles in the pool, but it looks entirely different to bystanders...
I assume that all of these Tweets are sufficiently witty and interesting enough to get you to follow me, right? No? Then I'll expound.
Rachel and I went to Chili's for dinner. I had a bonus on my check from work this past month, and spent most of my extra dollars going out to eat. Really, I think I've eaten out more in the last month than I have in the last four months combined. I never go out to eat anymore. (I have lived it up to my satisfaction, and am returning to my frugal ways for the next several months. In case you were wondering.) Where was I? Oh right. Rachel and I went to Chili's for dinner. Our server was from North Carolina, if I remember correctly. We'll call him Earl. He did a good job, refilled our drinks, was very polite--fulfilled all of those good server requirements.
I then decide to tell Raytch that I want to cut an inch and a half off of my hair. When your hair is as long as mine, 1.5 inches likely wouldn't be noticed by anybody. It's just necessary, people. My hair's lookin' shameful. So Earl comes walking up to refill our glasses with water and jumps into the conversation (pronounce all of the following with the hint of a southern drawl): "Don't cut your hair! Every time a girl says she cuts her hair she says later she wished she would've kept it long. Or they just don't like the haircut. Or girls with short hair say they want long hair. Just keep your hair how it is." Rachel and I just nodded confusedly at his abrupt intrusion. He proceeded to say all of what he said the first time, a second time, in another order: "Really, girls should just keep their hair the same. They always regret cutting it. Every girl wants long hair. Every girl with long hair wants short hair. Just keep it." Well, if he hadn't convinced me the first time, then surely he did the second time.
For reals though, Earl? No one asked you.
Second topic: A gym membership is $23 per month for me. Not bad at all. But if I were to purchase my own elliptical without financing, after saving up just like Dave Ramsey says to, I couldn't buy one for 18 years. I'll be like 42 by then, with a husband and kids (God willing). I'll have needed that elliptical for the last 18 years to avoid being fat by 42. Come on! Come on.
Third topic: Ah, the dumpster dive. I could make this into a rather decent andecdote. I wonder how long my story will end up. I had to take out a small grocery bag of trash from my bedroom. As I closed and locked my apartment door, deciding which hand to put my keys in, I decided on my right hand, which was also holding the grocery bag of trash. I quietly told myself, "You just have to be careful not to throw the keys in with the garbage." I'm not lying about that, either, folks. I really did tell myself that. And I'm sure you can see where this is going. So I head down to the dumpster around the corner of my building with my left arm full and my left hand clutching keys and trash. With a firm grip on my keys, I swing my trash into the dumpster. While in the process of releasing the trash, I felt that my keys had gotten hooked onto the handles of the bag. I watched my keys and trash fly away from me into a big, huge, dumpster. You can use your imagination as to what things I said when this happened. Let me give you some of my reasons to be frustrated:
1. I am five feet tall.
2. The dumpster comes up to my nose.
3. My keys are at the bottom of a dumpster.
4. My apartment door is locked.
5. It's a dumpster.
While muttering all kinds of unbecoming language, I looked around my apartment complex to make sure no one was watching me. I had to act without thinking--what else could I do? So, in flip flops, I put my right foot up on the protruding side of the dumpster, lifted myself up, and swung my left foot over into the dumpster. Then I jumped in.
The story sounds less funny if I tell you that the dumpster was almost completely empty--it was just my trash and someone else's. I counted my blessings though. Who knows what I would have had to swim through otherwise? I knelt down, picked up my keys, and threw them out onto the ground. I looked out from the inside of the smelly green dumpster, where no one was around to help. I realized that I hadn't thought about how I was going to get myself out. Oops.
I put my hands up on top of the dumpster and jumped to lift myself. It was a rather weak attempt, mind you. I was just spent from the whole situation already. To avoid having some sort of in-dumpster meltdown, I tried again. This time, I used all that gym-built strength to really lift myself up. My arms straightened, my body stiffened; my left leg came up and over, and my right leg followed. I did it. I climbed out of a dumpster that is almost as tall as I am. I grabbed my keys and went to my car to run my errands.
Then I called my dad to tell him about my super-human get-out-of-the-garbage-dumpster strength.
Fourth topic: "Excuse me, do you have any suntan lotion?" Who goes to the pool without sunblock or suntan lotion, first of all (unless you're black or don't burn)? Yeah, I had some, but that's lucky for you, since I never reapply it when I'm at the pool. I handed my Hawaiian Tropic SPF 2 tanning mousse over to this lame-o. While he's putting it on, I hear him go, "Whoa." I look over, and he's made a total mess of himself. I said, "Yeah, a little goes a long way." He responded pleasantly, "I guess that's all I need, then." "No sh--," I wanted to say. But I didn't. Don't worry. As he's rubbing in the mass amount of mousse that he took from me, he says, "So how's your day going so far?" Oh geez. First of all, this was a lame way to talk to someone. Secondly, I'm all sweaty and watery and am busy tanning. Thirdly, my day was good till you took advantage of my preparedness. All I said was, "It's good." If you didn't already notice, I'm not very friendly
And the fifth topic: Bathing suit bubbles. There's not much to be said on this. Except that when I get up from the tanning chair to submerge myself in the cold water of the swimming pool, the air from my swimsuit bottoms floats to the surface. They obviously look like other kinds of bubbles, and in that particular instance, there was someone not too far away. Oh well. I'll have you know, stranger at the pool, that I did not--I repeat, did not--fart in the pool.
I think that about does it. It's time for me to go write about some more serious things now.
Life is weird.