Category Archives: I’m not really full of mosquitoes

It kind of feels like a hollow victory

Conversation with Victor in the car…

Victor: You never talk to me while I’m driving. You just play on your phone.

me: Oh. I was just thinking that my friend amazing, but she can’t see anything other than her flaws. I wish I could make her see all the awesomeness inside of her. She’s like a magnificent pinata filled with such beauty, and all I want to do is just smash her in the face with a stick.

Victor: What the f-?

me:  But in a good way.

Victor: It’s amazing that Hallmark hasn’t called you yet.

me: I know. They don’t have nearly enough cards about pinatas. Hey, do my eyeballs smell?

Victor: Are you high right now?

me: No, I’m serious. If I said “It smells like ass in here” you’d know what I mean. Same thing with armpits, and earwax, and feet, and unwashed hair, but you never hear people saying “something smells like eyeballs in here”. I wonder if humans are immune to the smell of eyeballs.

Victor: This is not even close to what I had in mind when I asked you to talk to me.

me: Well, that’s the danger of not giving me a topic. I bet cats can smell eyes. That’s probably why when I wake up sometimes Posey’s face is like an inch from mine, and he’s staring right at my eyeballs. They probably smell awesome.

Victor: Or terrible.

me: I bet they smell delicious.

Victor: *silence*

me: Smell my eyeballs.

Victor: I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that.

me: Well, now I’m all curious. I can’t smell my own eyeballs, dude. This exactly why I got married.

Victor: You got married so you’d have someone to smell your eyeballs?

me: Well, not specifically. I mean, it wasn’t in the vows. But it was implied.

Victor: You know what? I take it back. Please, please go back to your phone.  You win.

me:  Really?  I didn’t even know we were fighting.  My God, I’m good at this.


Honestly, it’s sort of hard to argue with any of these.

Several people sent me links to this new site that analyzes your past tweets and comes up with what your next tweet will probably be according to your personality and past habits.  I assume the average person gets stuff like “I need coffee” and “Good morning everyone!”  Not me.

Things that “Yes, That Can Be My Next Tweet” predicts I will say in the near future:

“Quick.  Someone get me a replacement cobra.”


“My alligator is worsening.  I need an 11 cent payment for a cave.”


“I never thought I’d like a firey crash so much.”

“No, that taxidermied pig dressed as my special lady is not leaving me.”

“I’m ready to hate me now.”


“I need two perky young priests and three squirrels.  After insurance.”

“There is that shoe again.  I’m worried.  Where’s the bucket?”

“Okay, three words: It’s like, FUCK YOU! YOU’VE CHANGED.”

“I have captained space ships.  Also, this entire day just came out five hours later.  I blame the future.”

“Home from Jesus’ death?”

“I don’t know who owns this own crossbow. Right now we’re cool. ~ But HALF A BLOWJOB?”

“I just made an arm.”

“Home from something stupid.”

“Victor: Why do Pickles look they hate me.”

“Also, Victor’s broken arm casts now endorse unicycling.”

And my personal favorites:

It’s a valid question.

Can you carry an alligator on a plane? Answer: I still don’t entirely know.

If you follow me on twitter then you already know that yesterday I bought and smuggled a dead alligator onto a plane so you can just skip the next paragraph and go straight to the money-shot below.

If you missed it, I’ll just sum up by saying that if you ask twitter if it’s legal to carry a smallish sort of taxidermied alligator onto a plane with you, most people will say “Um, no.  You aren’t even allowed to bring breast milk on a plane.”  Then you’ll point out that the alligator is at least 50 years old, is wearing clothes and is missing a hand and some of them will change their mind but most will still insist he’ll be considered a weapon.  Then you’ll say “I can’t imagine anyone seriously thinking I’d try to take over a plane using only a tiny, clothed alligator as a weapon” and everyone on twitter will like “Really? Have you even met you?  Because that sounds exactly like something you’d do.”  And they had a point.  But what I learned is that if you carry your alligator through the airport with confidence, no one ever questions you. Probably because you’re holding an alligator.

I call him "Jean-Louis". Victor is not a fan. Probably because he had to share the window seat. And because I'm already making plans to buy him a tiny pirate suit. And a hook for his missing hand. And a saucy little pony-tail. Victor: "This dead alligator is a damn money pit." Oh my God, if I had a nickel for every time someone said that to me.

UPDATED: SXSW…sort of.

The SXSW festival is an hour from my house but I never go to it because crowds scare the shit out of me and also because it’s super expensive and I don’t have enough xanax and/or facial hair to fit in there, but last week I got invited to some kind of SXSW civility luncheon thingie and I had to go because 1) it was being thrown by some of my best friends and 2) someone invited me to a GODDAM CIVILITY LUNCHEON, y’all.  How could I not go?

I usually write down shit as it happens and quickly write a post that day so I don’t forget what my notes meant but then Victor decided to shatter his arm and I got distracted and now I just have a bizarre bunch of notes that are confusing even to me.  And now I’m going to share them with you.  Because then you’ll know what it’s like in my head and it will make you feel better about yourself by comparison.

Bizarre notes I wrote to myself while getting mildly sloshed at a brunch designed to teach me about “civility & mobile etiquette”:

  • Awesome idea for an invention:  Tin cup (worn on a piece of twine around your neck).  You could use it for olive pits, used-toothpicks and for panhandling.  A tin cup on twine is the new waterproof pocket.  That would be our slogan.
  • I could probably save a lot of time if I just made a t-shirt that says, “I’m sorry for disappointing you”.
  • I’m at civility party designed to teach me about not using Twitter in public. I’m the only person tweeting right now. Awesome. *I’m* the asshole at the bar. Except this isn’t even a bar. My god I suck at this.
  • I just spent 10 minutes convincing Helen Jane that James Franco’s severed arm probably tastes like buffalo.  Made a really convincing argument of it and I’m fairly sure she was impressed.  Then some new chick came over and asked what we were talking about and I was all “James Franco’s arm tastes of buffalo”, but I wasn’t sober enough to remember my reasoning so I just left it at that and the new chick looked vaguely frightened and wandered off.  This is why context is important.
  • This is a civility luncheon about the rudeness of using mobile phones in public and it has a hashtag assigned to it.  #deeplyconfused
  • Overheard: “Do you ever have to please your man while texting?”  And suddenly this shit just got interesting.
  • Overheard:  “Ringworm is going to happen, but if your baby gets pinworms you just walk away.  Start fresh with a new baby, I say.”  (Disclaimer:  Does it count as “overheard” if you’re overhearing yourself say it to other people?  How about if you’re only saying it to see how eavesdroppers will react?  I say yes to both.)
  • Overheard:  “This would make a great heroin spoon.  Right?  Do they sell these here?  Someone find me a waiter.”  (Again, see disclaimer above.)
  • me at our table:  “Ooh!  Pistachios!”
  • me, seconds later:  “Oh. Those are not pistachios.  Those are olive pits.  No one eat those.”
  • me, two drinks later:  “Ooh!  Pistachios!”
  • *repeat*

Seriously. They *totally* looked like pistachios.

  • Things I learned: SXSW is pretty cool if you don’t actually get anywhere near SXSW.    Pistachios aren’t supposed to be damp.  I shouldn’t even be allowed to have a phone and/or leave my house.

UPDATED: By popular demand, “Sorry for disappointing you” shirts for socially akward bloggers are now available in men’s, women’s and toddler’s sizes.  I’m buying two.

(UPDATED: NOW WITH MORE WIL WHEATON) An open letter to Wil Wheaton

Dear Wil Wheaton,

Hi.  I’m sure you must be very confused about my insistent tweets asking for a picture of you collating, and about the fact that the I Blame Wil Wheaton shirt was given an award for being one of the most viewed shirts on zazzle.

First of all, let me assure you that I do not actually blame you.  I blame your secretary.  Or whoever is in charge of sending out photos of you collating papers.  She should probably be fired.

Secondly, I’m pretty sure that you haven’t sent me a picture yet because you’re not sure what I’m going do with it and that is a totally fair question and one I’d be asking myself if a sex worker was asking me for a picture of me collating paper.  In fact, I’d probably suspect that “collating paper” was code for some kind of weird sex act.  Like, remember back before the internet was invented, when “laying cable” just meant you were laying cable?  Me either.  But I assure you, “collating paper” here just means collating paper.

You probably don’t read my blog so I should explain that the reason I need a picture of you is because I constantly get emails from PR people offering me pictures of celebrities using whatever bullshit product I don’t actually care about and I’d like it to stop.  Most recently I wrote about my interactions with PR people who wanted to send me photos of Lou Diamond Phillips holding water, and of Selma Blair wearing a scarf.  (This is all true). I still get these emails daily and my plan is to get a picture of you collating paper so that when they offer me a picture of “Harry Connick Jr. standing next to yarn” I can say “Thanks.  Here’s a picture of Wil Wheaton collating paper” and then they’ll be like “Um…why would I want a picture of Wil Wheaton collating paper?” and I can be like, “EXACTLY.”  It wouldn’t actually stop PR people from emailing me thousands of pictures of people-with-things but I’d at least feel better about it.



PS.  It’s totally okay if you don’t want to send me a picture at all because years ago you commented on a post I wrote for a blog that doesn’t even exist anymore and now you get a pass for pretty much anything.  You wrote “Now you can scratch one off”.  I know because I kept the notification.  I can’t actually remember what the post was about but I’m fairly certain your response, though brief, was totally apropos.  Also, I emailed you to make sure it was really you and you responded: “It’s me”.  Seven characters.  It’s pretty clear you had a talent for twitter before it was even invented.

PPS.  I had the maid proof-read this and she just pointed out that “laying cable” is not a sexual euphemism at all and I was like “Who’s the sex worker here, lady? They sent me to Japan to write about sex ponies so I’m pretty sure I’m the expert here” but then I looked it up and it turns out that “laying cable” is code for taking a long, unbroken poop.  Apparently I was confusing “laying pipe” with “laying cable”and I’ve been saying it wrong for pretty much my entire life.  Awesome. Plus, now the maid is claiming that “writing about sex doesn’t make you a sex worker” so I had to pull up the pictures of me in the sex dungeon for proof and she was all “You’re fully clothed” and I was like “I think I have a picture of me naked in here somewhere” and then my husband walked in and was all “Why is no one working in here?” and I was like “Do you know where those pictures are of me naked but covered with hamburgers?” and the maid was like “It doesn’t count if you’re covered with hamburgers” and then Victor said that from now on I’m not allowed to be in the house on days when the maid comes.  Because apparently he doesn’t want me to have friends.

PPPS.  I found the hamburger pictures.  You don’t have to look at them though.  They’re really more for the maid, who I’m not allowed to talk to anymore.  I don’t blame you though.  I blame Victor.



Reason #307 why I love the internet.

Updated again:  It would be selfish to keep this to myself.  This page is for you.  You’re welcome, world.

I can’t tell if I won this argument or lost it. I’d feel better if I at least had nachos.

Conversation with my husband:

Victor: Look at this video. It’s about a company that invented a tool that lets you drive using only your mind.

me: Awesome. I’m so glad we’re making such huge advances in the field of driving-a-car-without-hands. It’s good that the scientists have a new priority now that they’ve found a cure for cancer.

Victor: The concept is pretty cool. You can drive all the way to work just sitting there.

me: They already invented a tool for that. It’s called a bus.

Victor: I think I want one. You could drive yourself to the grocery store and learn to play the flute at the same time.

me: I would kill myself in about 8 seconds in that car. What about all the times you think about driving off the edge of a cliff? Does it compensate for that?

Victor: Who the hell thinks about driving off a cliff?

me: Um…me.  And everyone.

Victor: *

me: You don’t imagine –for just a second– about driving off a bridge every time you drive over one?

Victor: Why would I do that?

me: Because it’s human nature. Everyone does that. You never actually do it but everyone thinks about it.

Victor: Well I don’t think about it.

me: Well then, maybe there’s something wrong with you.

Victor: Maybe there’s something wrong with me because I don’t think about driving off cliffs on a regular basis?

me: Or because you want a car so you can play the flute. Neither of those are particularly normal.

Victor: Okay, first of all, the flute was for you. Secondly, I think there’s something really wrong with you.

me: Probably.  I like how in the video they’re all “Don’t try this at home” because that disclaimer is totally the only  thing keeping me from driving my car with my mind right now. I mean, that and the fact that we’re out of brain sensors.

Victor: Just stop talking.

me: If I was driving a brain-car I’d make it go to Taco Cabana all the time and you’d be all “Where are we going? We don’t have time for this” and I’d be like “I’m not doing it! It’s the car. It must want enchiladas” and then I could get enchiladas all the time and you couldn’t yell at me about it because you couldn’t prove I was doing it on purpose.

Victor: When have I ever yelled at you about enchiladas?  WHY IS THIS EVEN AN ISSUE?

me: You’d totally yell at me if I suddenly veered off to get unexpected enchiladas. That’s why I’ve never even tried it. Because I know you. But just wait until we get our mind-control car. There are going to be unexpected enchiladas everywhere.

PS.  Then Victor said that I just proved that I can’t be trusted with a mind controlled car, which was kind of my point to begin with.  I win.  Except now I totally want enchiladas and I have no brain-controlled car to get them for me. Touché, scientists.  Way to create a demand.

On a positive note, they’ll probably never ask to borrow our axe.

Actual conversation I had with my elderly neighbors the 6th time in a row that they’ve unexpectedly dropped by to meet Victor and I’ve had to tell them that he’s out of town again:

me: I swear to God he really exists.

Them:  Oh, we believe you.

me:  You probably think I’ve chopped him up with an axe and stuffed him under the crawl-space.

them (slightly aghast):  We would never think that.

Me.  Oh.  Well, you probably do now.

neighbors: ?

me:  We don’t even have a crawl-space.

neighbors:  Oh.

me:  Or a shovel.

neighbors:  Well if you ever need to borrow a shovel just let us know.  That’s what neighbors are for!

me:  Well, Victor’s still alive.  So…I don’t really need a shovel.

neighbors:  Of course he is.  We just meant if you needed a shovel for…

me:  Oh!  …For non-murderous reasons. Of course.  Got it. Sorry.  I am not a good conversationalist.

neighbors:  Ah.  Well, maybe we’ll stop by again on Saturday.

me:  Awesome.  I’ll be sure to hire someone to pretend to be my husband so it doesn’t look suspicious.

neighbors:  *…*

me:  That was a joke.

neighbors:  Oh.

me:  It wasn’t a very good one.

And then they never came back again.

UPDATED: My new year’s resolution is to get you to stop asking me about my new year’s resolutions.

People keep asking me what my New Year’s resolutions are and I tell them that I don’t have any and then they get all pissy because they assume that I think I don’t need to change but it’s really just that I’m too bored with myself to invest any more time thinking about me, and also because “What are your new year’s resolutions?” is kind of code for “So tell me what you think is wrong with you.”

That’s why my new resolution for 2011 is to get into something so blatantly reprehensible that when 2012 comes I will have an obvious choice for what I need to give up next year and I won’t be sitting here trying to figure out which one of my many vices is the most obvious to everyone else.   And then I’ll be all “This year I’m going to shoot up less heroin!”  Or stop burning books.  Or stop burning kittens.  Or stop burning books about kittens.  I haven’t really decided yet.  Whichever thing seems more likely to have people remark about how brave I am, probably.

PS.  You never realize how many terrible life-choices are in front of you until you think about how nice it will be to tell people you’ve given them up.  This is probably why so many people are shooting up heroin right now.

PPS.  OMG.  I GOT IT.  This year I vow to start shooting up kittens with heroin.  It’s gonna be a brave, brave 2012.

UPDATED: As requested, I drew up some anti-kitten-heroin photocards that you could use to save money on birthday presents but no one bought any…

Click on the picture if you want one.

…so instead I made a whole different set of cards for people who want kittens to be on heroin…

Or you could really confuse people by giving them one of each.

But then it turns out that no one bought any of those either.  Conclusion:  Heroin-kitten awareness is at an all time low, probably because we don’t have a sexy spokesperson attached.  Someone contact Neil Patrick Harris.

Who the fuck has never heard of a chalupa? (Updated. Now with more apologies.)

I wrote this post weeks ago but then I got distracted and never published it and now I can’t remember the ending but I’m super-hurty from an arthritis flair-up so I’m posting it like it really all happened yesterday.  I am the worst blogger ever.

So yesterday I spent the day with Maile, Rachel, Laura and Karen to help with Karen’s book signing and it was a strange whirlwind of sweatshops, igloos, tv appearances and possible house invasions and right now I am completely, inadvertently high so this post might not make any sense.  As always, it’s ripped entirely from twitter and my journal.  You can totally skip it if you want.

9am:  Arrived at the local NBC set to watch Karen being interviewed about her book.  I’m sitting in the green room with Maile and Karen and some guy from a fitness club and he’s all “I’m here today to teach people how to dance the zumba” and I’m all “Those robotic vacuum cleaners?” and Maile’s like “No.  That’s the Roomba.”  Then I decided to just be quiet but I noticed that the sign leading to the bathroom was also leading to the sound stage and I was thinking how fun it would be to sneak in there accidentally and Karen just gave me this look like “WHY ARE YOU EVEN HERE?” and I was all “I like your sweater” because I was trying to distract her.  Then the anchor came in and lead us on to the set and they let me and Maile (it’s pronounced Miley) stand in the back with Karen, and I introduced us as Karen’s entourage and I was going to say that I’m like a groupie except that I don’t do blow-jobs but Karen looked a little tense so instead I just said it on twitter and then everyone on twitter was like “Poor Karen.  You’re a terrible groupie” and I was all “You guys, I would totally give her a blow-job if she like NEEDED one.  Because I care.  But she’s fine.”  And then everyone was all “Well, have you even asked her?” and they had a point so I leaned over to Karen who was waiting for her cue and I was all “You don’t need a blow-job, do you?” and I said it while shaking my head “no” like I already knew what the answer was and she was all “What?!” but she had to whisper it because they were back on air and I was all “I’m just checking.  For twitter” and then she just stared at me and she was like “I’m. fine.”  And I was relieved but part of me didn’t even believe her because she looked stressed but possibly it was just because I threatened to flash her in the middle of her segment.  But I totally didn’t.  I love that girl.

Maile, Karen and my cell phone camera which needs a flash. True story: I'm wearing my pajamas here. PS. Arthritis makes your hands swell up so much that they look like they need to go on a diet. Awesome.

Then we went to eat and there was a tostada on the menu and Karen was all “What’s a tostada?” and I was like “Uh…it’s like a chalupa.  Obviously.”  And then she said (I’m not exaggerating) “Oookay.  What’s a chalupa?”  And I’m all “Are you fucking KIDDING ME?” and no.  No, she wasn’t.  Also, she’s never eaten an enchilada.  For real, y’all.  It was like having lunch with an Amish person.  Except that I’m pretty sure Amish people can eat enchiladas.  I don’t actually know that much about Amish people.  But I do know that being a grown-up and never having eaten an enchilada is a goddam tragedy.

Then we didn’t have anything to do and Karen was getting kind of testy about the whole chalupa thing so we asked Maile to take us to her factory where she makes her Epiphanie Bags except that it was more like Karen said “Put us to work in your factory” and I was all “I’ve never seen a sweatshop!” and Maile was like “It’s not a sweatshop and I’m not letting you work there” and we were like “WE WANT TO WORK IN YOUR SWEATSHOP”.  So we did.  Karen and I made 114 cardboard boxes and I was all “This is awesome.  And you can pay us in wallets!” but then turns out that Maile doesn’t even make wallets and so I stopped working and instead I built a giant igloo out of all the cardboard boxes AND IT WAS AWESOME.  I totally want to get paid in igloos from now on.

I look depressed in this picture but that's only because I couldn't figure out how to get my awesome igloo out of Maile's tiny sweatshop doors.

Then we went to Karen’s booksigning and I don’t really remember anything about it because she had it in a bar that specializes in chocolate martinis.  Also, instead of olives they used roofies.  Probably.  Then we went back to Maile’s house and she has one of those artistically beautiful houses that makes you think that she must not have children but then you find out that she has LOTS of children and you kind of hate her a little but then the next morning I went to turn on the bathroom sink and THE HANDLE FUCKING BROKE OFF IN MY HANDS.   And I just kind of sat there in a paralyzed panic watching the water pour out and I was trying to reattach the handle but it wouldn’t work and I considered just running out of the house but I knew that they’d know that I was the only person irresponsible enough to flood an entire bathroom without telling anyone so instead I called to Maile and I was all “Is it possible that I just got incredible hulk super-strength?” and she was all “Um…what?” and I was like “This is for you” and I handed her part of her own sink and she was like “Oh.  That was already broken”.  Then I felt relieved and also a little bit disappointed.

Then I went home but when I pulled up I saw that the front door was missing and instead there was a big black tarp covering the opening and there had been two home invasions in our neighborhood so I was all “OMG WE’VE BEEN ROBBED” and I kept calling Victor but he didn’t answer even though the car was in the drive and so I dialed 9 and 1 and then snuck around back to look in the windows and I saw a stranger in our house but I didn’t know if it was a robber or a policeman and then I screamed and fell down a little because just then Victor tapped me on the back and was all “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING OUT THERE?”  Then Victor explained that the stranger in our house was there repainting the front door and that he didn’t answer the phone because he was too busy trying to figure out why I was creeping around the backyard peeking into my own windows.  Also, he said I was very obvious and made a terrible stalker.  Awesome.

Maybe next time write something on the outside of the tarp like "Your murdered family isn't in here. I'm just painting your door. Also, I totally know what chalupas are. EVERYONE DOES." The last part is optional.

If I was a better blogger this would have an ending that wrapped everything up succinctly and with verve but I’m on a lot of pain medication so please just pretend that happened, okay?

PS.  I just spell checked this post and spellcheck was all “‘Chalupa’?  Did you mean ‘chalk’?”  It’s also telling me that “tostada” is not a real word.  Conclusion:  Spell-check is racist.

UPDATED: Apparently I owe Karen an apology because based on the comments the majority of you people have never even seen a chalupa and several readers from Mexico have pointed out that chalupas don’t even exist there. So I’d like to apologize for my incredibly insular viewpoint that was even more wrong than usual. I promise to never use the c-word to insult anyone again. Unless it’s that other c-word that is not food-related. I reserve the right to keep using that one.

Comment of the day: I first heard of the Chalupa in 1996 when the registers at the local Taco Bell started displaying the message “Try our new Chalupa!” The problem is that my local Taco Bell didn’t start selling Chalupas until 1999. So for three years I was left to wonder, “What the eff is a Chalupa?” Every month I would ask the manager. Every month he would solemnly shake his head and say “I don’t know, son. I just don’t know.”

Then in 1999 my girlfriend went to the bathroom for like a half-hour and right when I started to get really worried she came back out. With a Chalupa. I was like “What the hell is that?” and she was like “It’s a Chalupa.” and I was all “What the fuck is a Chalupa, and how did you get one in the bathroom?!”

It turns out that there was an outside door in the bathroom and she had just gone to Taco Bell, but I’ll never forget her Bathroom Chalupa. ~ Adam Jones

The Walking Dead is a terrible documentary. (Disclaimer: if you’re British, replace “suspenders” with “braces”. Otherwise this will make even less sense than usual.)

Conversation with Victor after watching the last episode of The Walking Dead:

Victor:  Meh.  Needs more zombies.

me:  Right? Plus, it’s entirely unrealistic because all of their zombies are still wearing pants.  In real life there’d be zombie junk everywhere.

Victor:  Um…what?

me:  Think about how many times a day you have to pull out a wedgie or hitch up your pants.  If you were a zombie you wouldn’t have enough humanity left to think about pulling up your pants even though they’d be slipping lower and lower since you’re running after people all the time so in real life most of the zombies would probably have their pants around their ankles by day two.  Except for the ones whose pants are being held up simply by the horrific wedgies that they can never pull out.  That’s the real tragedy of being a zombie.

Victor:  …Hmm.

me:  Well, that and that you eat all your friends.  And when your friends see you they’re all “Oh, well I guess that’s what Jenny’s vagina looks likeAAAAH!”

Victor:  They’re…screaming about your vagina?

me:  No.  They’re yelling because they were distracted by my vagina and then I ate them.  It’s like a really embarrassing zombie trap.  But yeah, they were probably screaming about my vagina too.  Zombie vagina.  That sounds fucking terrifying.

Victor:  Wow.  So…when the zombie apocalypse comes you think your vagina…will become a trap?

me:  Well, not an intentional one.  That’s why when the zombie apocalypse comes I’m going to put on suspenders first thing.

Victor:  Well good luck with your suspenders.  I’ll be getting out the riot gun and a samurai sword.

me:  You load the guns.  I’ll get our suspenders.

Victor:  “Our” suspenders?

me:  I bought some for you.  Wanna see them?

Victor:  You bought me suspenders…for the zombie apocalypse.

me:  Well, technically I bought you suspenders for the benefit of other people during the zombie apocalypse.  If the suspenders become necessary you’ll already be dead.

Victor:  Huh.

me:  I’m thinking of the greater good here.

Victor:  Stop talking.

me: Humanitarian suspenders.

Victor:  If the zombie apocalypse comes I’m killing you first.

me:  That’s probably a good plan.  There’s no way I’m surviving that thing.  But wait till I have my suspenders on first, just in case.

Victor:  No, I’ll make sure to behead you.  You will not coming back.

me:  Aw. Thanks babe.

And that’s why we will never get divorced.  Unless you count being beheaded as a divorce.  Which, I kind of do.


Unrelated: I can’t stop making stuff for my zazzle store.  Has the money I’ve made been worth the time I spend inventing offensive office supplies? Not. even. remotely.