Things I do that I would like science to cure.
But kindly not name after me.
In a moonshine induced moment of introspection, I decided that this January instead of hurtling balls first into the New Year, I would take some time to self-improve. So I’ve compiled a realistically short list of unsavory things I do that I’m going to try and change. Obviously, I cannot be expected to fix them alone, so I’ve contacted all the best research teams in the country (and one in Switzerland) in the hope that science can fix what my mother could not.
My Sleepwalk Snacking
I have nice ankles. They are soft to the touch and pointy in all the right places, and they support my weight 84.7% of the time. They are also conveniently free of hair, which means that my esthetician can hold me by them when she dips me into the vat of wax every first Tuesday of the month.* But most importantly, they nobly refuse to expand. As do my breasts, Cheech and Chong. Even during those weeks when I decide that everything should be eaten between two pancakes.
Currently, my ankles and boobs (those little shits) are the only things not expanding as a result of the special condition I have developed. It all happens around midnight. I “wake up” and all signs point to the fact that everything is normal. I have total awareness and complete motor dexterity. My reasoning faculties are fully functioning, and I can ask myself complicated questions such as “Do you have to pee?” and, “Why do you have so many recurring dreams about opening the microwave and finding a tiny Leonard Nimoy inside?” Yet I talk myself into doing things that Day-Grace would never do. Right now it’s mostly eating pudding and peanut butter together and calling it puddutter. But I implore you — nerds at Harvard Medicine — cure me before Night-Grace turns evil and eats someone you know and love. And hopefully before my ankles give up the good fight. And no, Dr. Strunk, I am not just awake and feeling “snacky.” How dare you, sir. You, a man of medicine.
My Cackle Thing
Our world is filled with sounds that soothe the soul. Bells, for example. Or tropical rainfall, jazzy saxophone solos, Obama’s voice. Some sounds, however, make you throw open your arms and pray for death to take you. Such as my laugh. It evacuates cities. Like an air raid siren. Yet unlike a siren it signals nothing except that I’ve heard the sound of my own voice and helps no one. I would like the Yalies (Harvard is busy with my other thing) to do something about this while I am still of a marriageable age and before all the goats in my dowry die.
My Anaphylactic Reaction to Music Festivals
I would love to be a “cool” girl who is familiar with music that did not first appear on Broadway. Unfortunately, nothing makes me more vommy. I was that kid at school dances who pretended to mouth the words of the popular songs along with everyone else and then faked a coughing fit when someone got close enough to read my lips (which were singing the words to Motown hit, “Baby Love”). If I ever do end up eating someone, I suggest the jury sentence me to a tour of our country’s festival circuit. I would die instantly, and taxpayers would be saved from shouldering all those pesky fees that accompany lethal injection. Seriously, I’m sweating right now just thinking about that time my sister went to Sasquatch. She’s adopted probably.
My affinity for Westerns
I love westerns. And it is costing me frien— Shane! Shane! Come back!
My Addiction to Carrots
If you have ever had the unique pleasure of going to the supermarket with me, you will be aware of the fact that I will either loudly praise the presence of, or even more loudly bemoan the absence of, girthy carrots. And while a good straightness, length, and ability to travel well are all things I look for in a carrot, nothing is as essential as a healthy girth. The girthier the carrot, the juicier the reward — wisdom I plan on passing to my firstborn.** I consume a rough kilo a day, usually around 6:00 am, which is the reason my roommate has three attempted murders on her record. You might be thinking, “Good for you! Your eyes must be stellar!” Wrong. My eyes are average at best, and now my palms are the color of Garfield.
My Instinct to Say “Up Your Butt and around the Corner.”
I can’t help it. My first response when someone asks me if I know where something is, is to say that. It’s fine when it’s my sister who goes through her life like a dirty little boy. It’s universally ill-received otherwise. (For obvious reasons, this is the problem I have outsourced to Europe).
My Dog Aversion
My best friend has this dog — Roy — who I try to poison every year at his family’s Christmas party.*** Roy is my nemesis. He sits on my face when I fall asleep on the couch and does not respond to threats. I am supposed to love him because he is a dog and allegedly cute. In reality, I resent him and wish him only the worst. Yet people get weird when I tell them this. They take back their house keys and cease trusting me around their children. Seriously, you say “no thank you” to frenching someone’s beagle once, and all of a sudden you’re Judas.
So what do I do? Every single day I exhaust myself smiling and patting Roy and other indiscriminate poopers so that the villagers don’t drive me out of town with pitchforks. I let dogs lick my face and cheerily tell their adoring owners that ridiculous anecdote about how clean their pet’s mouth is. As if.
As far as I am concerned, there are only two solutions going forward. Medical professionals, either you hack into the CDC and release a canine-targeting super-bug, or if you’d like to save Roy, convince my insurance to cover hypnosis.
*I wear a swim-cap.
**I can pass it along to your children as well if you’d like.
***I’m sorry, Mrs. Graham.
