I Never Promised You Continuity!

I was going to type out something that made sense. It was going to be a pretty, flowy post that had a clear beginning and segued easily into the story of how when I was four I saw my mother kill a spider with a tea cozy and years later realized that it was not a spider, but my Uncle Harold.

Okay, so that's not true. It never happened. To make matters worse, it's not even an original thought type something that never happened. (Actually, it may be a form of plagiarism and I could maybe go to jail. If I do, please write me, mail is fun!) That spider story thought is just something stored in the movie quotes file room in my brain and that thing has been an over-flowing mess for years! And I just keep adding and adding to it because I kind of can't help myself and I can't find anybody who's willing to go in there and clean it out because, well, I guess I'm techinically the only one who can do that and I'm actually kind of a really big pack rat and hate throwing things away. It's not like Hoarder status - there's no need to bring in a counselor and a camera crew, but it's...well, noticaeble.

Revelation: Oh my goodness. All these years I thought I just had a really good memory, but it turns out my brain is a memory hoarder! Hmm. Well, acceptance is the first step. It also happens to be a very comfortable step. On the stoop of problem solving, it's "the" place to be. I think I'll settle in. No need to move up any time soon.

That matter aside, Oceans's Twelve is a darn good movie! (This is not some random crazy. It makes sense if you're cool and like awesome movies.)

Anyway. That whole well-formed-pretty-post? Not gonna happen. I decided I didn't want to do it. Or I got lazy. Maybe both. But I had to write something, because there was that small, nagging voice in my head that was like, "Tabitha, you started this blog, darn it, and you need to post consistently for all of those imaginary readers. If you try to overthink every little thing you're never going to write anything. And then who suffers? The children. Those imaginary children who are somehow helped by you sending words out into the depths and corners of the internets. Do you really want that on your conscience?"

And I don't.

So here I am.

Time to share some crazy. Here it is in the form of an argument with facebook via a birthday post for a good friend of mine:

[Actual Birthday Post to My Friend]

I thought it was interesting that facebook was all like, "Hey, It's Emily's birthday, here's a little reminder." And then I was like, "Yeah, I know, facebook, I got this. And I call her 'Geese' by the way."

So then facebook got all huffy because it has some sort of complex and likes to feel superior because it ALWAYS remembers everyone's birthday and by comparison, I probably don't really remember a whole bunch. But what do you know about me, facebook?? I don't tell you everything! You think that nothing even happened in my life between birth and meeting you!

Sorry.

Anyway, I guess facebook was all annoyed and was like, "Oh, yeah? Fine. You remembered her birthday, but what do you REALLY think??" like it was some sort of crazy test. And thus this survey was born. 

Last name edited for the privacy of Geese. My friend, not the birds. They have nothing to do with this.

I almost didn't respond because I didn't want facebook to think it had any power over me, but then I changed my mind. I was like, "Fine! File this!" And trust me, the response was more than favorable. :)

Happy Birthday, Geese!! I hope it comes without any arguments with a bull-headed and slightly self-righteous facebook!

P.S. Facebook was totally all "Thanks for your feedback." Because it had nothing else to say.

I swear, at the beginning of that it was just going to say, "Happy Birthday!" But something came over me. I wonder if this stems from something. Like, maybe I was once bitten by a werewolf as a child but my parents never told me but something weird happened after it bit me so I never actually transform or anything and a full moon is just a full moon and the only reason a silver bullet would kill me is because it's a bullet and "hello, that hurts!" and instead that bite just manifested in an over-active imagination. 

Come to think of it, maybe it wasn't a werewolf. Note to self: Ask parents about childhood bites.

But hey! Lookie there! I mentioned my memory twice. Not exactly flow, but maaaaybe a bit of a tie in. Work with me here. Stretch that sucker out!!

"Rephrase, Rephrase, Tie-in." <---- Makes no sense right now, but it has been burned into my brain. If it showed up as I was writing, then it is my civic duty to blog about it. Surely there is a reason.

Honestly, it could just be that the Mentor Training file room, like the Movie Quotes file room, has been a little neglected. I never said I was good at keeping house. That includes brain house. Or brain office. Brain storage. Yeah, none of that is in the skill set.

But I did give you some crazy. And I made it past the first post! This is a big deal. You should be impressed, imaginary blog reader. And know that I can give you so much more crazy. I have a million bits of random exploding around my brain at almost all times.

What? One for the road? Okay. I'm kind of a pushover like that. But it's the last one, and then you have to go to sleep! Unless you're at work. Or driving. That would be bad. Actually, don't read blogs while driving. That's dangerous. If you're driving you leave this blog or pull over this instant! I mean it!

Did you stop?  

Promise? 

Okay.

Fine. Here's a thought I had which you can now ponder:

"Maybe slutty girls used to be really into Halloween and trick-or-treating and never quite got away from the idea that if you dress a certain way people will give you things. Of course, while you may get a lot of treats, you’re bound to walk away with some tricks, as well. The slutty grown up version of tricks are STD's."

Am I right? Think about it.