Somethings Things Don't Come Out Right

I was just lamenting to a roommate last night about how I'm terrible at writing on my blog, and it's never going to be hilarious or awesome or garner lots of followers, nor am I ever going to become independently wealthy off of it.

The truth is, I'm terrible at thinking of things to write, and most of the hilarious things that happen to me, I don't think about immortalizing in the written word until months afterwards. And they become less and less funny as time goes by, simply because it's not particularly funny to say, "I got pulled over for speeding while rocking out in my car, wearing the teen wolf wig I had just bought for $6 at Smith's. 5 months ago." Okay, that's still funny, but my retelling of it just doesn't have the same weight as it would have, say, 5 months ago.

Anyway, in an attempt to be better at blogging, I told my roommate that I would start blogging about funny stuff right after it happens, whether it's a good blog topic or not. And that way, when something really blog-worthy does happen, I'll be in the habit of sharing it with the world already. So that's my promise to you: you'll get one in, like, 30 good blog posts. I hope you all (and I'm talking however many of you are left (which is probably 3, if I'm lucky)) don't hate me and my boring posts, because I swear something interesting will happen one day that maybe you'll want to read about.

So without further ado, here commences my most recent, mildly-funny story:

Like just about everyone else in this smog-filled, unicorn-forsaken state, I've been sick. Maybe it's the flu virus burrowing deeper and deeper into my sinus cavities, or maybe it's the fact that until the inversion finally cleared up today, every breath I took was the equivalent of smoking 6 packs of Virginia Slims at once. But the point is, I have been capital S-I-C-K.

Here's another little thing you need to know about me: I often say things in unintentionally weird ways. I think it's the by-product of being a professional writer. After a full work day of nothing but words, words, words, words, I simply cannot speak like a normal person. I pull the most abstract, strung-out synonyms for normal words, like "do" and "go" and "refrigerator" out of you-know-where, and I pretend that there's nothing wrong with saying "nutritional substance-cooling apparatus". I'm not sure if I'm doing it half-consciously on purpose, or if some little wire in my brain that connects eloquence to typing fingers somehow didn't get connected to my speaking mouth.

So in a cosmic collision of what felt like the plague and my normal bout of word-deficiency, all sorts of random, dictation cluster-flusters came pouring out of my mouth, not the least of which was when I told my roommate and her date that I was "going to go be a sicko in my bed."

Yes. That is what I said.

I'm tempted to leave it at just that, but I suppose some explanation is due. If you didn't gather, I was trying to tell them that I felt bad that I was sick, and was evicting all sorts of noises and liquids from just about every orifice in my face (I repeat: in my face), and that they had to stand there and talk to me while I was essentially a walking snot machine. So my intention was to say something like, "Well, I'm super sick, so I'm going to stop subjecting you to my disgusting mess of mucus and phlegm. I am going to bed."

But no, instead I simply said: "I'm going to go be a sicko in my bed."

And I wonder why I'm still single.