Would you guys believe that I sometimes forget how old I am? No? Well, I don't care, because I do so sometimes forget how old I am. Or I'll see in a magazine that someone is 24 and think, "fuck, that is OLD" and then I remember that OH, that's how old I am and also . . . 24 is not old.
I don't know where I'm going with this, other than to let you know that, while I did not throw myself off of a bridge (or a building or even a really steep stoop), I am starting to think I'm borderline retarded. Seriously. Who forgets how old they are? Have you ever had to stop and think, "Oh my god, that lady just asked how old I am. Well, that's kind of rude, but seriously how old am I? 21? No, that was a long time ago. Let's see, I was born in 1982 . . . carry the one . . . oh, right, I'm 24, which is almost 25, which, as Jessica Simpson and everyone knows, is almost midtwenties. Oh, Jessica, thank you for being so stupid. Also, thank you for keeping your skanky vagina away from John Mayer. Where was I? Oh, shit, that lady is giving me a weird look because she probably thinks I don't know how old I am which OK I DON'T but she doesn't need to know that."
Anyway, so tonight I had to go to Kroger to buy some feminine products (which would explain this post and also why a patient's mother almost made me cry today because she was MEAN AND YELLED AT ME AND IT WASN'T MY FAULT . . . bitch), and on the way I called my mom to see if she had my medical records. And I could explain why I need my medical records, but trust me, it is not exciting and if I told you, you'd thank me for making this long story short for once. Or you wouldn't thank me, because if you knew WHY you'd thank me it would be because I told you the whole story and if you heard the whole story you would be all "go away, Jennie, I DO NOT thank you." And there goes that tangent. Also? To go off on another totally unrelated tangent? OK, so I went to Kroger to buy feminine products, right? Guys, turn away. Seriously. You do not need to hear this. This is knowledge you have no use for. Anyway, so I bought the right kind of tampons, but the pads that I bought do not have wings. NO WINGS. Who the hell makes pads without wings? That is the stupid, goddamn thing I have ever heard of and I blame Always, OK? Not me, who didn't look closely enough at the package because I got tired of standing in the feminine hygiene aisle. Seriously, they already separate the tampons from the pads; can they not separate the pads with wings from the abominations that are pads without wings? Also, can we start calling pads something else entirely? Like . . . I don't know . . . fluffies? OK, that's worse, but that's the first thing I thought of. You come up with something better and that is what we shall call them. Just make sure they still have wings. OH MY GOD, Jennie, stop talking.
ANYWAY (that is the biggest anyway in the world), my mom did not find my medical records, which means I get to track the particular piece of information I need down tomorrow. She did, however, find all sorts of other relics from my childhood, such as my old grades (ah, how smart I used to be), my National Honor Society membership card (nerd!), a Science award (NERD!), some poems I wrote in High School (I bet they are full of woe and longing), a cheerleading itinerary (bet you didn't see that coming), and a newspaper clipping I had completely forgotten about. Or wiped from my memory in embarrassment.
I used to work in a library. And one night, a nice man with a camera came into our breakroom and asked if he could ask us a question. I was facing the opposite direction, reading, and assumed he was talking to the other people in the room who were actually paying attention to him. Until he asked the question, which was, "What would you do if aliens landed on planet Earth," and my smartass mind could not freaking RESIST answering that one. And while I don't remember my exact words, I believe they were along the lines of, "I would ask if they would take me home with them and make me their pet."
That's when he asked if he could take my picture. "Unorthodox," I thought, but agreed, smiling like the fool I was (am). That's when he told me he was from the paper. And that my picture and quote might appear in said paper at a later date. Realizing what part of the paper he was talking about, I knew that only six pictures ever appeared and I hoped against hope that my picture and quote were not chosen.
Which was why, a few days later, I was very, very disappointed to have my black and white picture and stupid, stupid words shoved in my face by my parents, my coworkers, my boss, and, oh, my Calculus teacher.
Thanks, Mom. Good times.
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