Everything is telling me that life will be okay, great even. Or that I’m stupid. Some days it’s a toss up. My tampon wrappers have witty slogans to reassure me that even though I’m bleeding I should go for a 5 mile run and feel my spirit fly or some shit like that. Pretty much all I want to do is cork that bitch up, eat a Costco size bag of Peanut Butter Snickers and yell like I’m possessed by the devil himself while I’m out driving. To pick up those snickers. And more tampons.
Even my cough drops are getting in on the act. They actually try to motivate me with tiny messages on the tiny wrappers:
“Elicit a few wows today”
“Let’s hear your battle cry”
and my favorite
I can tell you right now that all that screaming I did out the window of my car while I was in a rage to go get Snickers and tampons made my throat raw and all I want is a fucking cough drop to soothe me, not make me feel guilty about wanting to lay my head down on my desk or pass out from boredom and that eliciting a few wows means “Jennifer didn’t call Bethany ‘That cunt’ once today! Wow!”
Even my yogurt lids have something to say, something to make my soul smile or something like that when all I’m doing is getting my tongue cut from licking the metal lid and then later on the devastating knowledge that I’m one of the few people that can’t digest the good bacteria that hermaphrodite Jamie Lee Curtis raves about.
And then there are things that need to remind me I might be too stupid to live. My sanitary pad’s sticky strip has directions on it. The arrows point in one direction and the word FRONT is written in English, French, and some language that might be Dutch laced with tongue-clicking. How did I ever live before with my pad on backwards? And since I smartened up and stopped wearing it on my head, my life is now complete.
Even Google likes to bitch-slap my self-esteem (or whatever’s left of it after finding out that the pads I wear come with directions). Sometimes I type too fast when looking something up on Google. Google will underline my stupidity and somehow convey in what I can only describe as a self-righteous bitch voice: “Did you mean Little Red Riding Hood?” Really, Google? Did you really think I wanted to look up the original Red Riding Hodd?
Then again, Google seems to have a dark and twisted sense of humor. I started to look up something and Google, like an annoying know-it-all, tried to psychically predict what I was going to look up. I typed in “Why is there….” and Google supplied “Why is there a dead Pakistani on my couch?”
Google, you bitch. Honestly? I did look over at the couch to make sure there wasn’t a dead anything on it.
I recently signed up on Pinterest for two reasons: 1) I don’t have to interact with anyone and 2) I can spend hours HOURS looking up Doctor Who pictures and quotes. But Pinterest, like Google, likes to put you in your place. I sometimes accidentally re-pin pictures. Hey, there are a lot of David Tennant pictures out there and I sometimes re-pin the same pictures. Pinterest, those passive-aggressive bastards, pops up with “Pssssst! Did you know you already pinned this?” What’s really being said is “Pssst. Fucktard. Are you getting dementia? You already pinned that picture of David Tennant, like, 5 times dumb ass.”
I’ll show them. I might break both Google and Pinterest when I look up “Why is there a dead Pakistani on my couch wearing a red hodd with David Tennant drinking from a coffee mug pinned to the front?”
Then I’ll watch the world burn.