If the list of holds was 49 deep for Running with Scissors, why am I the only one who requested Dry? Just because of the movie? And on that note, how in hell are they going to make that into a movie?

Why do I have to cry every single damn time I watch It’s a Wonderful Life? At least twice, every year, in front people who I would like to respect me? And why do I bother trying to hide it, like, I’ve never shown any interest in this Yzerman poster next to me before, but now seems like a good time to commit it to memory, sniffling, with my eyes closed? Why is that movie so damn awesome? Does it carry associations? Am I secretly in love with George Bailey, or do I identify with him? Could Donna Reed be anymore beautiful? Was the entire child actor budget spent on Young George, thereby having the most annoying producer’s kid of an ‘actress’ play their cloyingly devout daughter? Why do I forgive the casting and poor editing year after year after if you haven’t seen it I will find you?

How, when you don’t like doughnuts, and haven’t had them in years for this reason, can you suddenly decide that pounding five in rapid succession is a viable lunch alternative? And what, you didn’t expect that to hurt later?

If I composed an entire musical, starring myself, with award-winning lyrics and a ten-year run on Broadway and consequently made millions off the enterprise but then became disillusioned with my glamourously boring life and started taking drugs to cope with the stress of three shows a day, could it then be less satisfying to repeatedly utter the musical question “Why Am I Such a Freaking Moron?”

Why do I keep forgetting to put deodorant on my shopping list?

Why am I one of the ten people on the planet who can taste the injection of MRI contrast dye? No, really—metal allergies aren’t enough? And speaking of things I inherited from my mother, why was her relatively shapely butt not one of them?*

If the color I painted my toenails is the exact shade of pink as my skin, thereby giving my feet the impression that I am actually an android molded out of multi-textured plastic… that’s not a question, really, it’s just awesome.

Why do I have to suffer a breakout four days before seeing my entire extended family?

Is it worth the headache to wear nice clothes to a family party, knowing I’ll be henpecked about my fashion sense, weight, haircut, and relationship status—or lack of any of the above—regardless of what I wear? Should I hang the sense and go naked, with ‘Take That Opinion and Suck On It Like a Thai Whore On an Immigration Officer’ painted across my nipples? Can I passibly imitate a wasting disease over the phone, and spend Christmas in my bed with coffee nog and a pile of books, sans grey hairs? Could I live with the guilt?

Since the answer to the above is of course no, which of my siblings is my “I’m So Glad We’re Not These People / Yeah, She Totally Meant It ‘Like That’ / Dude, Hug Break / Meet Me in The Ladies, Cuz We Need to Discuss That Shit Right Now / I Know, I Know… Hold Out for The Booze / Oh. My. GOD. / I So Would Not Serve a Day for Busting Her Jaw, But You Know, Gram’s Here” Knowing Glance Exchange buddy this year?

I had this grey hair before, right?

What does soul cancer feel like? Indigestion? Carbuncles? Nerves? Do I need a Pepcid or an Atavan, is what I’m saying?

Why didn’t I start this entry earlier, when I could have polished it longer, and when it’s just starting to get funny?

And when am I going to grow up and stop laughing at phrases like “polished it longer”?

* It may seem weird to outsiders that I speak this way about my mother’s tootie, but you haven’t seen my father’s flat, saggy, lacking-any-sort-of-feminine-quality ass. And I have. In the mirror. Every day.


Popular Posts