Today, I was sitting in Starbucks, trying to write an essay when my cellphone started vibrating. When I went to pick it up, I bobbled it, and somehow it opened up this old text:
Damn. Do you know how big a hole you have to dig to bury a keg?
And, well, that’s kind of funny as is. Then, I scrolled down and noticed that it was from my father. I started laughing and ended up getting a bit of hot chocolate up my nose. I’m sure my coughing really amused the woman sitting next to me.
And because I apparently had a desire to see exactly how much hot chocolate my sinuses could hold, I kept scrolling through the old messages.
There were these two from George (A girl. And yes, her name is George. Like how Nancy Drew had a tomboy friend called George. Only this George spends her days reading books, being a vegan, plotting to kidnap me and go on crazy adventures, and protecting animals.) that made me chuckle:
I feel like most fire fighting forces discriminate against trannys.
I always think that his name is Justin Beaver.
And knowing George, these were probably texts she sent me out of the blue to see what my reaction would be. Sort of like last week when we had an argument over writers being egotistical and whether artists needed drugs to create art. I’m sure you can guess where I stood on those two subjects.
And then to finish it off, I’ll put a few in from Cecelia.
THIS BIO LAB IS LIKE SLIDING DOWN A BANNISTER OF RAZORS AND LANDING IN A POOL OF ALCOHOL.
What can I say? Life is a pin cushion of mediocre analogies, but I’m Betsy Ross’s thimble.
When you make an assumption, you make an ass out of u and mption.
By this point, I had lost all intentions of maintaining a straight face, and was laughing into the back of my hand. And to top it off, I had the rest of the “razor and alcohol” conversation from Gilmore Girls running through my head, and I have yet to meet a situation where Lorelai can’t make me laugh.
Oh, and I wrote the essay. Without tears and only moderate panic. I need to go to Starbucks more often.