I've realized what type of Old Lady I'm going to be today... "The Reporter". In the past couple weeks I've been finding myself saying "oh, someone should report him he's gonna kill someone" or "look at that squirrel, someone should report they're craziness they're gonna hurt someone" or "someone should report that girl's too short shorts.. she'll make someone wanna hurt themself." Thinking about getting old doesn't make me feel good beause i have some serious wrinklage in the middle of my forehead already (as i wrote this, i could feel them getting deeper)
I got to thinking if I was allowed to report all the things that pissed me off. I'd start with Corduroy pants.. mainly when people wear corduroy shorts, or try to cut their pants to make shorts. Especially when worn too tight, the way some thighs hang out near each other those thing would set fire in the summer time. i just imagine the sound of the corduroy rubbing together like a peice of sandpaper sounds on bark. ew.
After my parade of hate for those god awful fashion peices i'd skip to talking in the bathroom. Especially since my most recent encounter in the bathroom was so far past awkward I'd almost rather pee with glass doors. What could make a girl want to pee where everyone could see, you ask? well when one of the women at your office stops to ask if you "if you're okay in there" you may as well be. (just an fyi- i was fixing the belt on my dress as it got tucked into my spanx..that's it.. that's all)
The list goes on and on but I suppose I could cast those judgements on another day. I'd like to be in bed before my clock hits tomorrow.
No comments:
Post a Comment