Whenever I talk about someone I know who has passed away, I really want to say “but I didn’t kill him/her”. It’s this urge I have to fight, this strange inappropriateness that tempts me like wearing striped thigh highs with mini-skirts in the present, not in 1994 when that was acceptable.
If I get a great song stuck in my head, life is good for days on end and I think happy thoughts for all of mankind. If I get an awful song stuck in my head, I wish harm upon others. This is why I don’t allow kid music in the car. Give me a towel, Mr. Tangerine Speedo.
When I see someone eating a slice of pizza like it’s a taco (i.e. folded up), I have to repress the urge to bitch-slap that person. You’re eating pizza, not a taco. If you want a taco, get a taco. You don’t have to get the pizza in your mouth faster by pretending it’s a different food.
When I think about the times I’ve been a bad friend, I feel like I could cry until my eyes stopped functioning as eyes, and served only as squishy marbles.
Almost every day, I have to stop myself from approaching a stranger and pretending to know him/her. I want to throw my arms around the stranger. “Hey! How are you? I’ve missed you. How long has it been?” Just to see what the reaction will be. I kind of think most of them would play along. No one wants to be the jerk.