You know, the word for the woman who mouths something condescending to you because you’re using your cell at a stop light, and though it’s on speaker, you bring it to your hopeless ear because your mom is explaining how they’ve found more cells on her arm, liver, spine, meanwhile the light has turned green and the woman is still mouthing, grimacing while she stares you down and drives for a block and half, eyes on you, in her Range Rover, blonde toddlers in the backseat, but she is doing her civic duty, you know, by frowning at your phone, eyes off the road, while you’re trying to hear your mother explain targeted treatment with transparent vigor and you’re simultaneously trying to process the appropriate amount of woe for your mother and dumb luck for your own white health.
What is that word?
I just experienced the pizza triple threat. The tripoli threat, if you will. I was watching Friends, wherein Phoebe was talking about how the delivery girl forgot her vegetarian pizza, while scrolling past a snapshot of a dog eating pizza on Instagram, whilst, at once, eating pizza. Picture the perfection: Phoebe hovering over a comically tall stack of pepperoni, a dog reminiscent of Petey from Little Rascals scarfs a slice of pepperoni on my phone, and, simultaneously, I take a bite of salami pizza (because I’m fancy). It was magical.
Also, I realize the word should have been trifecta, but tripoli threat had to happen.
If I were a bad neighbor, I’d steal that perky pineapple from the grocery bag you left on the stairs. Then I’d make pina coladas. I don’t even like pina coladas.
“I’m going to do this annoying, chaotic thing until someone’s hurt or something’s broken.”
So as you’ve gathered, I’m a super consistent blogger. This is pretty much the pattern in every facet of my life, because I’m really good at being a grown-up.
That said, I will announce my new Onesie (the creepy cute title of these week-long, one-liner, self-inflicted exercises)! I thought I’d broaden the assignment scope from just weekly scenarios to random lists of necessary information–mostly because I’m not creative enough to think up a second scenario, so I’m settling for any kind of coherent words and synaptic fire. It is likely that next week I will have regressed back to doodles of my cat. I’m a really good writer.
This week’s Onesie:
That could be a Shakira song…
“I Can’t Remember to Forget You”
Now a three-fer…
If I were a zombie, I’d wear Ellen to the Oscars.
If I were a zombie, I’d choose my victims based on how recently they ate pizza.
If I were a zombie, this blog would be incomprehensible…more so.
So, of course, on the second day of this genius plan, I forgot to post my one-liner; thus, today is a twofer.
If I were a zombie…I would eat Raisin Brain for breakfast.
If I were a zombie…I would look like Rachel Dratch and Steve Buscemi…because they both look like zombies.
Obviously I have been off the writing wagon for a few weeks now. On the wagon? I never remember which, but as it stands, the wagon isn’t even a wagon, it’s a cat on my lap that I’m desperately trying not to disturb. So, to get back in the swing of things, I plan to do some daily one-liners based on random scenarios I set at the beginning of each week. Well, since it’s Wednesday and I never seem to think of these things in opportune timeframes, I guess the scenarios will be announced every Wednesday. I love using the word “announced” as if my readers were more than just my mom and my aunt (hi, Susan).
This week’s scenario: If I were a zombie (because for some reason zombies are a hot thing right now. Last year it was vampires. I expect next year it will be crab people).
If I were a zombie…I’d still refuse to pay department store prices.