Sunday, February 3, 2013

First World Problems

I want to write a memoir. A memoir of a 24-year old. A memoir with self-deprecating overtones interspersed with the self-righteous and a generally lackluster plot line. Someday, that memoir will divulge the secret wisdom of writing in bars and avoiding MRSA without ever buying band-aids.

And then I fell on the ice again (bringing the score of Molly vs. Sidewalk to 0-2) and Buddy Holly asked me if I had any band-aids to which I responded, "no, I usually just tape some paper towel on my finger when I cut it making eggs."

Considering those two little factoids and the following photos depicting my secret domestic ineptitudes, I'd say my ego's about even for today. Manic-depressive? Surely not.


Coffee filters? Those things are like $2 FOR 5,000. WHO CAN AFFORD THAT?

 

Garbage bags? WHO NEEDS THAT WHEN I CAN SCOOP THE SHIT OUT WITH MY HANDS.

 

A two-second staple gun job to affix chair seats to their frames? I'd rather make my friends really uncomfortable.

 

New egg timer? BUT WHAT IF I FORGET THE TIME THAT IT MELTED?

 

Mirrors are like five hundred dollars. Don't even talk to me about that shit.

 

 

My apartment is cute, goddammit. You have to SEARCH for this shit. And I am not ashamed. Except maybe about scooping garbage out with my hands. Commence self-deprecation.

 

 

 

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