Well, I officially hate my life. I've been hemming and hawing over it for a while, mulling around the notion that my existence isn't quite up to par... but now, I'm certain.
I've just spent the last 20 minutes, cleaning my bed. Sheets? Soaked. Pillows? Sopping. Mattress?... fuck, don't even get me started.
You're probably wondering if I wet the bed? I wish. I wish an inconsistent bladder was the worst of my issues.
No, I did not wet the bed. I haven't done that in at least two years. I, being the RIDICULOUSLY intelligent person that I am, spilled chocolate milk in my bed.
Yep. I set a glass down, on the mattress, and for some reason, it tipped over (shocking, right?). I could kick myself for not investing in one of those Tempur-Pedic numbers, you know, the ones where the girl is jumping up and down, and her glass of merlot doesn't-even-move!! ? Yeah, well, my 'merlot' moved all right. Moved all out of the cup. Moved all through my sheets. Moved, probably, I'm just guessing here..., all the way to the fucking box-spring.
If I could go back in time, I'd make sure to invest in a Tempur-Pedic. Oh, hell, if I went back in time, I wouldn't set down the fucking cup of chocolate milk on anything other than a sturdy, non-porous surface.
Well, actually, if I were to go back in time, I'd travel to my infancy, and somehow convince my parents to invest in several companies, like Starbucks, and Apple. Then, at least, I'd be a rich idiot- which is the best kind...
But, alas, I cannot go back in time. I'm stuck. I'm stuck as a completely worthless, milk-spilling asshole. Ughhhhhhh.
Before you go and think that I'm being too doom and gloom about my lackluster life, realize this:
This is not the first unfortunately stupid mistake I've made in the past month, let alone my entire awkward existence. To be honest, it's not even my first mishap with milk, or beds.
Last year, while standing in the kitchen, I glanced at my wrist to see what time it was. Looking back, I can count two problems with this: one, I had a mug of milk in my hand, and twisting to see the time caused me to dump the contents down my front. Two, I haven't worn a Goddamn watch since year 2000, ergo it was moot.
Last month, I had a bad dream and sprained my wrist whilst (or after?) falling out of my bed. Who does that? I told people I slipped on the ice. I did not. I, like 4 year olds all across the nation, rolled out of my bed, injuring myself in the process. Thank God it wasn't a bunk bed.
I'm just, unfortunate. That's the only word that fully encompasses my inadequacies and faults, all the while seeming a bit endearing (or pitiable, whatever).
There are innumerable occasions in which I was that girl. You know. That one, the weird one. The one you laugh at, because, if you cried for her, she'd probably feel a whole hell of a lot worse.
In the 6th grade, I was walking home with my friend J. I tripped, (probably over nothing) and then sat on the ground crying and carrying on like a crazy person for probably at least 8 minutes. Granted, I was like, 11, or something... but screaming out, "I HATE THESE SHOES!" (Doc Marten sandals, if you must know) repeatedly isn't justifiable.
It was also in 6th grade when I was walking into the DHMS girl's locker room, followed by a boy. "Boys aren't allowed in here," I said. She was not amused, to say the least.
In eighth grade, I was dragged to a Mormon mutual (probably by A Big Ash)... a Wednesday night gathering in which we probably made cookies or something down at the LDS chapel. We listened quietly as a boy recited a lovely poem, which he himself penned. I was very impressed by him, as I didn't have the guts to stand in front of hundreds and do anything, let alone speak. As he finished, I clapped. I think I may have even stood.
Mormons, evidently, do not clap for poems. They just stare blankly, like they did at me, until I sat my non-denominational ass back down. Silence. A Big Ash's family still tells the story.
In kindergarten, I was climbing in one of those spider web dome things, you know what I'm talking about? Anyway, I was hanging from the top, when I guess I figured, "What the hell!?", and let go. It did not feel good.
The second grade brought on greater responsibilities, and what I can only deduce as increased stupidity. As I recall, on this particular occasion, I was writing a report on the octopus. Being the savvy seven-year-old that I was, I was less than stellar at distinguishing similar words when accosted by them all at once... ie: when using a spell check.
So when I spell-checked my document, instead of sifting through the 8 very-similar examples, I just hit, 'Correct', over and over again.
Cut to my teacher, pulling me aside. Her name was Mrs. Oberding. Mrs. Oberding said to me, "Elizabeth, I think you made a mistake. You see, here, you put that an octopus has eight testicles."
She waited for my 'Oh, shit, my bad,' response... which never came. Not knowing what the hell she was talking about, I probably just blinked. She looked at me, probably with hidden amusement, and continued.
"Do you know what testicles are?" She asked.
"No," I said, having no reason to know such a thing, as I did not have testicles of my own...
"They're little boys' balls!" She said. I remember her laughing, and so I laughed too. Why would an octopus have balls?! They didn't play sports!! How silly.
She saw my mom a few years ago, more than a decade after the incident. Upon recognizing each other, Mrs. Oberding, laughing again, said, "Octopus balls!!" My legend, it seems, will never fade.
Ughhhh. While I've come to terms with most of my painfully awkward tendencies, this milk thing really pisses me off. Why? Why did I set it on my bed? Why did I even have a glass of chocolate milk? What am I, 8?
And, how does one go about cleaning that properly?
It's times like these in which I am immensely grateful that I have no children, or dependents, or... fish. Or anything that I could accidentally kill by being my careless, impaired-to-the-point-of-practical-retardation, self.
I trip, I fall, I say the wrong things. I slip in the doorway to Mike's, pop the lenses out of my aviators during my escape, and then wear the frames as I run home down B-street.
I'm that girl who gets dragged to the bar in SLIPPERS, because her friends are evil and told her that they were perfectly content with watching a movie that night, thereby tricking her into attendance.
I'm the girl, who with her brand new purse and wallet, and camera and iPhone and various other accouterments, buys a double vodka and soda. And when someone asks to see my new wallet, I'm not the type of girl to set her drink down, oh no. I'm the type of girl who bites the side of the cup, holding it with her clenched jaw, to better dig through her purse. And when they ask me where I got my wallet, I answer them. And drop the fucking drink INTO my purse, camera, phone, accouterments and all...
I'm that one who asks you how your grandma is, only to find out she died three weeks ago.
Oooooo, I hate myself.
No wonder I drink so much.
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