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I like trivia and I’m full of useless information. My husband tells me I’m “over-emotional”. I will then cry, shake my fist, pull a bunch of odd faces, tell him that I’m a woman, and then I tell him to piss off. It’s always better to be pissed off than to be pissed on, at any rate.
I have a very odd sense of humor. I used to perform in a cover band, what feels like a lifetime ago and I’m still a total rock star in the car. I haven’t sold my expensive microphone. It’s still wrapped up in its pretty leather case, buried in the bowels of my closet. American Idol, here I come. Before I get too old, anyway. I promise I’ll make the cheesiest faces and flash my fingers when they “announce my number” to vote. On that note, vote for me.
I’d love to have a friend with Tourette’s Syndrome. I could then be myself out in public and no one would bat an eye. They’d say, “Hey, there’s that guy/girl with Tourette’s and their psycho sidekick, Sarah.” If any of you have Tourette’s; or know someone with Tourette’s, please email me. I promise fun times and companionship.
Random noises at the most inappropriate times are the greatest.
I smoke cigarettes and don’t want to quit because I will gain weight. How’s that for self-esteem, fellow feminists? I’m a word-nerd that lacks a necessary amount of math skills. I still count on my fingers.
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"In closing, I hope you like me around here. I’d like to stick around. In the words of my equally insane but poetically-prophetic father: I hope I fit “like a finger in a bull’s ass”.
Offhand, I'm betting that she fits more like a horse's ass.
