Yesterday, I woke up and Billy Motherfucking Mays was all:
IT’S VALENTINE’S DAY, YOU DIRTY SLUT, SO GET YOUR LAZY BITCH-ASS UP AND GET READY TO FUCKING SPARKLE ALL OVER THE FUCKING PLACE.
When Billy Motherfucking Mays is the first voice in your head in the morning, you shut your whore mouth and you listen.
Gingerly, opened my eyes and thought about my plans for the day. I had an appointment with my neurologist who looks, incidentally, like he stepped off the set of a spaghetti Western somewhere (I’ve diagnosed him with GERD)(gastroesophogeal reflux disease)(he should really get that taken care of). Over by the neuro was the mall. At the mall were STORES. At the stores were PRESENTS. Presents for ME.
Today, I thought, was going to be a very good day indeed.
I sat up. Easy-peasy, I thought to myself. Eye of the Motherfucking Tiger!
Then, in an alarming fit of poor judgment, I stood up. Whoops! My bad. My legs felt like wobbly stumps, thanks to the migraine and Imitrex. Well, shit. Hard to take on the world without properly functioning legs.
I hummed “Life’s Been Good To Me So Far,” as I made my way to the bathroom. All right, I cheered. I got my fucking sea-legs.
When I looked in the mirror, this is what looked back;
Woah. That’s hot. I should probably become a model or something.
(BARBIZON, BE A MODEL, OR JUST LOOK LIKE ONE)
I tried to scrub the ugly off my face but it just wasn’t happening. The Ugly Cry has it’s aftermath.
I wobbled down and drank some coffee, giggling at all of the anti-VD Tweets (I have other holidays I feel similarly about) and tried to peck out a post. I’ve been writing in the mornings for so long that if I don’t, I feel like I’m missing an arm.
But I couldn’t.
I was wobbly in the head, too.
Billy Motherfucking Mays piped in:
“SHUT YOUR WHORE MOUTH AND WRITE A GODDAMNED POST, YOU LAZY DRUG-SEEKING BAG OF WIND.”
But luckily, Bob Motherfucking Ross was right behind him:
“Happy Clouds, Aunt Becky. Focus on the Happy Clouds.”
I tried to see those happy fucking clouds and write my goddamed post at the same time and I just couldn’t do it.
Then it came to me. I needed to go where I’d never (willingly) gone before to do something I’d never (willingly) done before: look at laptops.
We all know that my technical knowledge begins and ends with I push a button and the Magical Elves in the Email Machine come alive! So the very notion going to a computer store for the express purpose of looking at computers for myself is as laughable as me painting my kitchen with my tongue.
Normally, I only go to Best Buy if ambushed:
Daver, My Dad, or My Brother: “Oh HEY there, Becky/Rebecca/Stumpy, let’s go to MCDONALDS!!”
Me: “OOOOOOOOH CHEESEBURGERS.”
(I get into the car like a rube)
Me: “HEY WAIT A MINUTE THERE’S NO CHEESEBUR…GAH, OH MY GOD THE BLUE AND THE YELLOW AND FUCKING SHITBALLS IT’S SO BRIGHT IN HERE. LOUD. LOUD. LOUD. HALP ME HALP ME HALP. MAKE IT GO AWAY.”
Daver, My Dad or My Brother: “You think you’d learn, but you never do.”
Then I hover, invading their personal space, until they get fed up and leave. Alternately, I insist that they buy me something exorbitantly expensive. Like a pony.
To actually want to go to Worst Best Buy is the equivalent to hell freezing over. But I need a lappy and I don’t have a lappy and every time I try and look for one online, this is what it looks like,
And then I get really annoyed because there are so many fucking NUMBERS and I don’t actually CARE about most of them so then I go and watch Dexter mutilate people and feel better until I realize that I still should figure out which laptop I am going to buy because, hi, this staying home all day bullshit is making me twitchy.
Also: I need to take the Internet away from Jimmy Wales and Mark Zuckerberg because it’s time for a GIRL to be in charge. I need to RUB MY VAGINA on the internet, Pranksters, but I have to be able to be MOBILE to dominate the world and shit.
I proceeded into Best Buy after perfecting my GET AWAY FROM ME GEEK SQUAD look in the mirror.
See, if you don’t watch out for them, they sneak up on you and the next thing you know, you have to hear a sermon on why you should buy their stupid anti-virus protection or whatever, but you’re just standing there, mentally rearranging their features kinda like Mr. Potato Head but geekier. So you have to be wary of them. Very wary.
I snuck to the back of the store where the keep the lappy’s hostage, ogling the desktops as I went past.
And there they were: row after row of laptops. Finally, I could stop obsessing about my inability to decide and just fucking decide already. This was too tedious, even for me, to obsess about.
I rolled my eyes at the tiny netbooks. I didn’t need no stinkin’ netbook. Child’s play.
And there it was. A light, a beacon of light, shone down and I saw exactly what I needed. A laptop that said, “hey world, I’m a fucking blogger. You’d better take me and my 17 inches of swinging death seriously or I am going to go all CPU (whatever that means) on your ass. I’ll punch you in the throat if you don’t take me and my oversized screen and too many memory chips and stuff fucking seriously because I am a blogger and this is an absurdly awesome computer.”
A laptop that was absurdly absurd. Too much computer. WAY too much computer.
Just like I like it, baby.
Just as soon as I sell a kidney, Imma get me a fucking big ass 17-inch MacBook Pro. So I can go all (insert a bunch of nerdly phrases that I don’t understand here) on the Internet’s Ass. I’LL SHOW ZUCKERBERG WHO’S BOSS.
Just as soon as, uh, I get it. And stuff.
SO TAKE THAT, ZUCKERBERG. In um, a, um, couple of months…and stuff, I’m going to take over the INTERNET.
#BOOYEAH
Every year, right around March, I’m all, “IMMA MAKE AWESOME CHRISTMAS CARDS NEXT YEAR!” I get these really grand ideas like, exploding firecracker Christmas Cards and Christmas Cards that sing “Rock Me Amadeus” and maybe just cards that feature my family dressed up in totally weird outfits. Either way, my ideas are FULL of the awesome.
Then I forget about it.
Or, I don’t really forget about it, I just don’t remember that it takes some level of PLANNING to execute holiday cards and I’m not known for my fine attention to details. Like, for instance, I never own stamps. Because, OBVIOUSLY, stamps are bullshit.
So I haven’t sent Christmas cards in like 7 years. But every year I’m all THIS IS GONNA BE MY YEAR. JUST LIKE THE KIDS ON AMERICAN IDOL.
(it never is)
This year, I was considering sending Valentine’s Day cards. It’s kind of awesomely different and really, wouldn’t you like to see MY smiling mug on YOUR Day To Shell Out Lots Of Money To Take Your Loved One Out For A Cheesy Overpriced Dinner?
(don’t answer that) (really, I don’t think my ego can take it)
Then, I found the most perfectest solution. Better than a Valentine’s Day Card, I’m going to commission one of these. With a friend that you all know, too. If you’re lucky, you’ll get one.
From the amazing, awe-inspiring Celestial Soul Portraits.
I cannot begin to tell you how excited I am. I’m going to frame it and put it in EVERY ROOM OF MY HOUSE. And over my bed. And in my car. And on the side of my car. I might even buy a van and have it spray-painted on there.
I’m weeping with possibilities.
Operating on about 3 hours of sleep combined, my husband of 40 hours sat across from me shoe-less, his shirt up around his pasty nipples while another man rubbed him up and down. While an awkward woman rubbed my butt and patted down my vagina, our eyes met. Without attracting any more attention, I mouthed “I’m sorry.” His eyes smiled right before the man grazed his balls with his elbow. Then he wasn’t smiling anymore.
It was all my fault. Honestly.
Later, he expressed, several screwdrivers to the wind, that this was his first experience with being singled out and searched by airport security.
Mouth full of egg and cheese biscuit and several screwdrivers drunk myself, I slurred, “Well, dude, at least they didn’t take you to that back room.” I took a long drag off my drink, “Because that shit is WHACK.” I paused. “And hey, they let me keep one of my lighters.”
The Daver looked less than pleased.
“I’m sorry,” I said, chastised. “It’s all my fault.”
But was it? Was the issue with having a face (presumably) like a terrorist my fault? Certainly I’d been stopped by customs and security more times than I could possibly count, singled out from a crowd each and every time I flew since I was a small child. My father and brother, who turn equally brown-skinned in the sun, get it also, but not as badly as I do.
I can’t put a toe into an airport without securing a nice frisking and potential strip-search.
While I can easily claim that I *am* an asshole, the moment I hit the airport, I turn into the idiot sister from Hee-Haw. I’m all “Golly Gee,” this and “Jeepers, Mister,” that with a side of “Gee wilikers” thrown in for good measure. You’ll never see a more ridiculously PC, G-rated version of me.
And still. And yet. And how.
I’ve learned to show up to the airport extra EXTRA early. I’ve learned that flip-flops–even in the dead of winter in Chicago–are the footwear of champions, and I know to wear loose baggy pants for easy up and down access.
But this begs the question. Why me? Was I marked as a potential terrorist when I was a baby? Is this on my ever-fucking Permanent Record?
I’m going to Vegas in two weeks at the ass-crack of dawn and I’m certain that on each leg of the trip, I will be searched up and down, and God forbid I pack the wrong toothpaste or something, because I am hoping to make it to my destination.
With the new regulations, though, it’s likely I’ll have to have The Sex with the TSA to make my flights. Maybe I’ll walk.
Vegas or bust, baby.
Aunt Becky Shirts!
Subscribe Y’All:
