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I Wrote What YOU Told Me – Part VIII

D.J. Paris

Every so often I realize that my creativity appears to be slumbering. It is in those moments that I reach out to readers who remind me that their ideas for blog posts are much worse than my own. Here we go.

I actually have a cat vomit story from when I was wee. Goddamn do I love alliteration! Anyway, I was forced to take piano lessons from an old bat named Mrs. Mayhew. My sister and I alternated which meant that for her 30 minutes I would keep myself busy by looking around Mrs. Mayhew’s home. She had, like all old people, a shitload of National Geographic magazines. I found one of the floor which had what appeared to be a 3D volcano on the cover. It was a huge mound of brown hardened glop. Impressed I thought, “Man, this magazine really does some cool stuff!” I reached over the top of the volcano and touched the inside. Smushy. When it was my turn for the lesson I told Mrs. Mayhew how I found the issue with the model volcano on the cover. She looked puzzled, went over to where I was playing and gasped. Yep, the cat had barfed on the magazine cover. Right next to the cover story – on volcanos.

I’ll give you five.

  1. Popcorn Jelly Bellies, Circus Peanuts, and Candy Corn.
  2. The word “retarded” being used by the non-retarded to mean “stupid” – that’s not what it means.
  3. The expression “It is what it is” being used to soften the real emotion someone is feeling, which is usually “FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!”
  4. People in 2013 who still flip through tv channels by pushing the up and down buttons on the remote.
  5. The one guy in the office who refuses to say, “Bless you!” when you sneeze – yes, we get it. You’re a passive aggressive dick.

I will tell you some things about my own fanny. First, I always layer toilet seats when I am anywhere my at my own home, even though logic dictates that picking up a disease from a seat is nearly impossible. Second, I have a scar on right cheek from when  I fell through a glass table. Third, when I was 23 I asked two models in California to watch me walk away and evaluate how hot my ass looked in jeans. Lastly, I’m not one of those people that when they get up from a chair leaves the seat all hot. That really fouls me out when you sit on someone’s previous 100 degree butt.

In real life the only way to handle bullies is to step up and defend yourself. Since bullies are cowards, this almost always works. But online, bullies are anonymous. When I get a nasty comment, I usually just apologize. I’ve learned that this usually reverses the direction of the anger. Since I don’t care what anonymous people feel about me, for a goof, I will say, “You’re right! I never thought of that before! I’m sorry for upsetting you.” It sounds like I’m being a huge pussy, but it’s really fun to try to win over someone who hates you. You’ll find that they’ll nearly always apologize back. Assholes are so predictable. It’s fun to screw with their mind.

I think our definitions of sex are very different. Let’s just stop there.

I’ve already talked about how black squirrels freak me out. Sometimes, when I’m at my parents’ home in Peoria, I run at squirrels in the backyard just to see them take off and leap onto tree trunks. At thirty-seven, this still makes me giggle. I know squirrels survive winters, but I have no idea where they live. I guess inside of trees. They seem to be pretty cool with chipmunks, too. You ever actually seen an owl? Just shooting from the cuff here, people.

I’m going to attempt to accomplish this in the fewest number of words possible.

John dutch-ovened his wife on their 30th anniversary. No other gifts were provided.

This is a good one since I am ultrasensitive to acoustics. Certain frequencies will induce anxiety, nausea, joy, and anger in me. I’m not exaggerating. When my sister’s boyfriend, a fast-talking Queens native, speaks, I get a little dizzy. My mom can laugh and hit a note that pierces my ears. Most likely this is Sensory Processing Disorder at play. But many noises that bother others don’t bug me. For example, nails on a chalkboard or snoring.  I can fall asleep to a baby screaming.  So, my scale is calibrated a little differently than most. The sound that would make me dry-heave, however, I’ve been fortunate enough to never experience directly. I believe it’s called a queef.

And, to end on a low note, I’m going to do something rare – post a link to a video I love. It’s the amazing Stace Hole doing, well, she’s doing what she does. Enjoy.

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