Self-Observations of an Idiot Savant pt. 3

When I’m 60 years old, I want to be bangin’ and if I’m not, I want to be wicked fat. I’m not suggesting I live according to extremes but if I’m not living dangerously, I might as well be dead. I will just say that bingo is a dangerous game, despite what you may have seen on Golden Girls.

There are two ways one can tell when I’m hormonal.  Unfortunately, the first indicator–excessive sugar intake–isn’t very easy to ascertain because I constantly exist in that state.  To really differentiate, you need to be sitting next to me on the couch as I’m crying through Law and Order: SVU episodes. Then you know.

Christmas is my favorite time of the year because I love presents.  I used to love Santa Claus back when the whole world was lying to me and encouraging deception, but at this point in my life, it doesn’t matter much who they’re coming from.

I spend a large majority of my waking hours cleaning up cat vomit. It’s a selfless job but someone has to do it or my house would be coated in the stuff.

I didn’t learn how to ride a bike until well into my double digits.  This late-bloomer trend would and will repeat itself throughout the course of my life.  Hopefully by 50 I will lose my virginity.  If not, I will contract with Universal Studios to star in The 55-Year Old Virgin which will naturally become a hit at assisted living homes, which is probably where I’ll be residing at that time.

I lied, above, about not caring who Christmas presents come from. The date was December 24, 1987, and the setting was Anywhere, USA. The scene was this: my mother and I at the dinner table, when I asked her the most defining question of my life–“Is Santa Claus real?”  And when asked if she should tell the truth or tell me what I wanted to hear, I very incorrectly and stupidly chose the former.  I was devastated and cried for decades days.

I am fine being lied to, as long as you are telling me what I want to hear.  I rather enjoy living a blissful life in which my butt doesn’t look fat in that dress, my fupa is barely noticeable in that skirt, and toilet paper is not hanging out the back of my pants.


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