ChicagoNow Assignment. Wednesday, January 27 “Write about a time you told a lie.”
Wow, this is it? So easy. So simple. No problem. This post is going to write itself. I can do that. I can take on challenges with no second thoughts. No doubts. Never have I any doubt. The confidence is uncanny. How do I do it? I can teach it to you, too, as soon as I peer around the front door and make sure no one is there.
I’ll be right there. That’s me pulling up in my Escalade. Alright, yes, the one driven by the Uber driver. Let me get my notebook. I’ve got all my ideas organized. Someone stole my notebook. It was here a moment ago. Or was it last week? Never mind. I never had a notebook.
I had a “tablet.” The most advanced. It never crashes. It never blue screens. It doesn’t even have a blue screen. I’m pretty tech savvy. Which apps can I recommend? Did you know where the term app originates? It’s short for “apprehensive about new-fangled shit, and shit.”
How do I stay so sharp? Staying away from sugar. That’s what I recommend. Be heart-healthy. “Heart-healthy” is my favorite expression. It never irritates me to the point of murderous rage. Ha! That would be so crazy. No. I am the shopper you always see in the frozen-preservative-free vegetable aisle at Trader Joe’s. You know, the what-have-yous below the cookies. Don’t ask me what kind of cookies. I wouldn’t know. I never buy them. I don’t even look. If they have cinnamon schoolbook letters, powdered ladyfingers, triple ginger, Belgian chocolate shortbread, I wouldn’t know. Ask someone else. Or ask me when I’m not in a sugar coma.
I can also give you fitness advice. Do you know the opposite of fitness? It’s fit not. That’s all I can tell you. If I ever am on the Red Carpet and someone asks, I will be forced to answer “Old Navy. The elastic collection.” Except I will pronounce it “Ehlahstique” and maybe even “Le Vieux Marine” to throw them off. Hopefully, no one will ask.
Here’s another key to happiness. Get a good night’s rest. Never take Ambien. Ambien was created in hell by the devil himself. You think you’re getting a good rest, but instead you’re familiarizing yourself with the Trader Joe cookies. Not because you’re sleep-eating in the kitchen. That would be too easy. Because you sleep-drove to the Trader Joe’s in Northbrook. That would never happen to me. Hold on. I need to tell my husband I don’t know when the hell I’m coming to bed.
Never tell your husband you don’t know when the hell you’re going to bed. I wouldn’t say that to my husband, but if I did, it would be because I’m staring blankly at strangers’ Facebook statuses. Hmmm. Why did Christy like that one? It doesn’t even make sense. “Sitting with Aunt Isabelle in her eco-friendly coffin with our new Grateful Dead Keurig espresso machine.”
Damn. That’s my status and I don’t even know a Christy. Note to self: do not take Ambien and log onto Facebook. Just go directly the hell to bed.
You know what’s so cute? When someone posts something you’ll never be capable of cooking, not if you were Julia Child on steroids, and their sole comment is “Yum.” This makes me overflow with giddy joy at their culinary prowess and inevitable wellbeing. I think there’s a Buddhist word for that, for joy on someone else’s behalf. Am I terrible person because I don’t know that word, but I can spell shadenfrude. Ha! You felt schadenfreude that I spelled schadenfreude wrong! You thought I thought it rhymed with “dude.” Who’s got schadenfreude now, Bitch? Jeez. Ambien makes me mean.
End of post. My husband is yelling about when the hell am I going to bed. Actually, ChicagoNow told us we only have an hour.
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