Stream of Consciousness

Congratulations, Natalie! You’ve worked super-duper, extra-textra, wacko-yako, walla-walla doo da ding dong hard and we’re here to tell you that you are SO on a team!

Do ants eat boogers?

I wrote down the bills I have to pay on the back of bill I have to pay and every time I cross off a bill I paid, I hope that somehow that will affect the bill I have not paid yet in a positive way.

I need new bras and underwear. I read somewhere that a person should never leave the house with stained or ripped undies because “you never know who’ll wind up seeing them.” This is true, and now I feel like a sinner 6 out of 7 days a week, because I only have a few pairs of panties that aren’t totally embarrassing. Shopping for underwear sucks though. NO ONE’S BUTT LOOKS GOOD IN A MIRROR IN VICKY’S SECRET OKAY!? I’M NOT READY FOR THAT AT THE MOMENT

 There are people, out there, wherever there may be, who are currently farting and hoping no one smells it. There are also people out there who are victims of their surrounding and will be blamed for the noxious smell because they’re fat. Why do I always assume the fat person farted? It’s not fair. But I do. Even when I fart in public, I think it is somehow, a little bit the big-boned person’s fault. Like, they’re a fart goblin that curses those around them with stinky methane releases.

I was once called “crazy” by an Ex. I still sting from that because blanket statements are the worst insults.

I’m not crazy: if I were, my friends would know.

I’m scared that a mosquito will fly into my room and I’ll have to kill it by smooshing it against my walls. I don’t want to do that because I’ll have smooshed bugs on my newly painted wall and although I like to think of the dead bodies as a warning to future intruders, the tiny mosquito brains don’t pick up on the hint, and come in, out for blood, regardless. I hate those little high-pitched, stinging, banes of my existence. I hate them!

I paid a credit card bill tonight, and as I did it, I imagined reading everything on the page in a really obnoxious effeminate voice. “Thissss is gonna be grrrreat. Oh kurrr? I’m juhssst gonna’ pay thissss bill and freakin’ be on top of my la-ife! Pay Na-oww? You betcha’, you dirty little statement. I’m gonna pay the shit out of you like a nasssssty whore at the end of a layy.”

I’m directing a show in June. For real.

I’m nervous about getting on an improv house team. For real.

I farted. For real. If you were here, there would be no fat person to blame.

April 29, 2013 at 3:57 am by Natalie Allen