We've already covered that I don't sleep. It's usually on Sunday's and while I'd like to remain blissfully ignorant and therefore, faultless, as to why it is that I can't fall asleep EVER on Sunday night's it's probably due to the four pots of coffee Scott and I consume throughout the day while trying to get our homework done in between blaming one another for the condition of the bathroom. By the time nine p.m. rolls around I'm asking, "Does anybody else feel like the room is alive?" and really it shouldn't come to any surprise to me that it's suddenly four in the morning and I'm buying jewelry I'll never wear online saying out loud, "Why is there nothing better on at this time than the Mr. T infomercial??!"
Alas, alack, this happened again this week like so many in the past. So while it was convenient to me that morning to have all kinds of spare time to weed through underwear I do and do not feel is worth keeping, by the time four p.m. on Monday rolled around I was a zombie. (It should also come as no surprise that I balanced 185.00 short that day because, hello, zombie's don't realize when they're giving money away accidentally. Frankly, I blame this economy for the desperation and lies of my customers. Jerks.)
So, 4:36 was when I stumbled in the door, 8 pm is when I shook myself like a baby to stay awake long enough to watch Big Bang Theory and 8:31 was when I was dead to the world. Funny I should put it that way as the next morning Scott sees me in the kitchen and is like, "Hey did you get ahold of your mom? She was looking for you last night, I guess your phone was off or down when you went to bed. She texted me."
(Yes my mother can text. She learned one day, God knows who taught her, and sent me a very cryptic "Tori Spelling looks like a horse". It took me like, two hours to figure out it was my mom. I shouldn't have been surprised. She really hates T.Spell)
Cue fourteen voicemails from my mother over like, an hour and a half period and two text messages that say, in quite demanding text I might add, "WHERE IS ASH".
So I email her at work and I'm like, "Hey, relax, sorry...took a coma, I'm here now" and SHE responds with:
"That's alright. I just thought Scott had killed you."
Now, thats absurd. However, I don't even know how to formulate responding to that because directly after is the sentence:
"Do you want to go see Taylor Swift in concert with your sister?"
And this is just a foreshadow, I'm assuming, of what life will be like the older my parents get. She watches approximately 76 hours per week of judge shows and MSNBC murder mysteries (most of which, according to her, always end by finding the semen of the perpetrator somewhere in the house and solving the crime based on that alone) and because of that is ridiculously paranoid that my live in ex-boyfriend who has never so much as tickled me too hard for fear of me wetting myself or vomiting not only bludgeoned me to death but then dragged my carcass out to the trunk of the car and Oh yes, left a trail of the aforementioned substance as the only clue to solve the crime.
It has become clearer to me though, that I'm really not that much better than her when it comes to the brain filter.
Take for example, my rant about 50 Cent the other day while scott and I were digging through the cupboards to make dinner. I had just read this awful 10 question interview with the rapper from his fans and SOMEHOW he managed to slip in there that his current album sold 21 million copies, his home in Connecticut is the size of a country club and that he won the bet with Kanye that his sales would be bigger for their dual release dates. None of these comments, by the way, were answers to questions his fans actually asked and so I was livid! ALMOST as livid as I was when I found out Lauren Conrad from The Hills had gotten a three-book fiction deal but really, let's not get into that. Let's just go straight for what Scott will most likely refer to as "The Conversation that earned me a ticket to Hell."
"Can you believe he said all of that? Like, who the F cares you have a big house?"
"Yeah, that is pretty conceited of him."
"Didn't he get shot in the face?"
"I think so."
"Well, BIG SURPRISE THERE!"
"You...you can't actually say stuff like that. It's rude and...terrible."
"All I'm saying is that if he's curious why someone shot him in the face this would be a pretty obvious answer. What's wrong with that?"
"I dont...you can't see how that's awful? Really?"
and so on and so forth. My point? IF in the next few days I go missing and my body turns up somewhere (ditch, alley, 50 Cent's basement) you'll know it was one of a few options. According to my mother, Scott did it and according to Scott, 50 or one of his many fans did.
My advice from beyond the grave? You can never go wrong testing that semen.
Time to pack. That's code for "Time to bop around to good music while pilfering through some of my old junk until I get distracted by the internet and the sudden urge for Ben & Jerry's".
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