Sunday, May 31, 2009

House Centipede in my House

Came home to this little monster waiting for us in our apartment tonight. It was a little more horrifying than owning a hamster and a little less horrifying than the time I woke up with a millipede carcass draped in between my ring and middle finger (but very much the same kind of horrifying.)

At first we were intrigued, then it moved. We (my roommates and I) screamed like ethnic mourners and killed it with an oblong bike lock: something that may have been more logically used on a human intruder. It took several blows. And a lot of emotion.

Just when I think I'm a rational, self-respecting adult, nature gives me 100 wriggling, screaming reasons why I am anything but.

Tuesday, May 12, 2009

I Hate Myself for Loving You

I may judge a man for the things he likes, but I will loathe myself for the things I love.

For instance, I sort of hate myself for how much I love Titanic. I also hate myself for not loving Flight of the Conchords. It's probably so I can beat everyone else to the punch of hating me (because I'll always forgive myself, but I know that people like my brother may never find it in his heart to forgive this kind of crime).

But most of all, I hate myself for loving, so much, the ironic, hilarious statement T's. Tonight I went to the laundromat and saw a large man, daughter in tow, with a shirt on that said "STOP SNITCH'N!" across a stop sign, and I had to laugh because, sir you are YELLING at me and we've never met.

But this isn't the first time I've appreciated and adored these shirts. And I hate that.

I hate that you are a grown man wearing a shirt that says, "Sister for sale..." and that I love it.

I hate that I wonder how many times a week you wear that "Warn a Brother" shirt because I know it's more than one and I hope it's more than five.

I hate that I want to know what you were thinking when you bought your shirt. If you laughed, or if (and I hope) you looked at it and thought, 'yeah... people do need to stop snitch'n, and I need to let them know that... one to five times a week.'

But most of all I hate that I don't hate it, not a little bit, not even at all.