Yeah, there’s something irrevocably wrong with my mind. I’m also slightly impressed with myself that I spelled, ‘irrevocably’ correctly on the first try. So now that I have my introduction of sorts typed up, let’s move on, shall we?
Penny per mile to operate.
My job essentially to be an un-glorified Grammar Nazi. It suits me really well, even if my brain sometimes wants to commit brain-suicide a’la jumping into a running Ninja blender as a result of some of the terrible things people do to the English language. I wouldn’t call myself a crazy, hardcore Grammar Nazi… I am far too lazy for that. I’m more like Grammar Nazi Lite. I see things everywhere like the restaurants that spell, ‘vegetable’ as, ‘vegetabal’ or, ‘pickle’ as, ‘pickel’. Or the car wash that used the incorrect version of, ‘too’. And then I take pictures of these things and look at them by myself, giggling at their stupidity and feeling strangely complete in my superiority.
As satisfying as I find my grasp on the English language to be, I find my grasp on mathematics that much more lacking. I hate math. So fucking much. So this is also going to be Math is Bullshit, because I said so. I was proofing a slide today that stated that a particular model scooter costs a penny per mile to operate. I attempted to rouse my math-brain to figure out how many miles per gallon a scooter would get if it cost a penny per mile to operate.
And how do these assholes get off assuming something costs a penny per mile to operate? Have they not seen the prices of gas bobbing up and down like a hooker’s head? It’s $4.39 per gallon, and then a week later it’s $3.59 per gallon. How does that allow you to accurately advertise it as operating for a penny per mile?
And then I remembered that I don’t know math, because I suck at it. And I gave up the fight. Because honestly, this is what always happens:
Story Problem:
If a scooter operates at 0.01 cents per mile and the cost of gasoline is $3.59, how many miles per gallon will the scooter run at?
My Brain Turns It Into:
If I have 10 ice cubes and you have 11 apples, how many pancakes will fit on the roof? (Answer: Purple, because aliens don’t wear hats.) Fucking hate math…
I bought a bag of circus peanuts today. Circus peanuts seem to have a Quentin Tarantino effect on people… They either love them or hate them. I love them. I can only seem to eat part of the bag on very rare occasions. Usually I start eating the bag, and I’m happy. And I continue eating them. And I think to myself that I should stop eating them. So I stop for a bit. But I’ve already made my crucial mistake… I forgot to put the bag away. Aw, one more won’t hurt. I’ll stop after that. Three more later, and I’ve decided that I’m going to stop eating them. They’re delicious and all, but I’m pretty sure that they’re made from the same chemicals that are in sheet rock. My resolve strengthens, and I pick the bag up to put it in my drawer. And I realize there are only four left. Fuck it, I may as well eat them. What’s the point of saving four circus peanuts? So I’ve eaten the whole bag. And I feel slightly sick to my stomach. This probably explains why I only buy circus peanuts every six months or so. That’s about how long my stomach-memory takes to stop flip-flopping when I look at circus peanuts after a binge.
I am fortunate enough to have a job that allows me to sit in my wee sparkly cubicle (I have decorated my cube with a ridiculous amount of sparkle and glitter – and I’ve got Christmas lights in it) and I can listen to Pandora pretty much all day long. Because I had to upgrade to Pandora|One - because they’re fuckheads and only allow so many hours of unpaid play per month without it – I have my stations fairly customized. And as a result, I know the words to a lot of songs that play throughout the day. On a related side-note, I’ve always had a secret yearning to perform. My closest brushes with performing were my solo in 10th grade, a duet with my good friend at a talent show, and karaoke. Of course, that’s not counting my poor car… If cars had ears, it would probably look weird, and its ears would be bleeding. The point of all this is that I really enjoy sitting at my desk and lip synching to the songs that play on Pandora. I have a (not so) secret desire to perform at a drag show sometime. As a female. Yeah, I know, drag queens are usually men dressed as women (and some of them are hotter dressed as a woman than I am), but it would be so much fun to get up on stage, dressed in something over-the-top sparkly and lip sync to a fabulous song. And I don’t just lip-sync. I perform that motherfucker. Anything from the movie Burlesque is a surefire guarantee to get my ass moving, along with Selena Gomez And The Scene. Cause my heart pumps the blood of a performer. Or a dork who flails about like the white girl she is.
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