2004-08-21 @ 11:00 p.m.
Since I've had so much spare time lying on the living room couch recuperating, I created a new and fun game called "Why is it that..."
Its really quite easy. You sit and think about all the things that confuse, confound, irk and make you want to take out a gun and shoot someone, and...
Well, I haven't quite figured out the rest of the game yet, but you get the general idea.
Here, I'll show you an example:
Why is it that the people with the worst taste in music have the largest car speakers?
Why is it that every time I go to the grocery store for the sole purpose of buying a half moon cookie or a double pack of Hostess cupcakes, I always have to walk back to the check out counter behind someone who has an ass 3 people wide? Is it God giving me a little heads up, like Witty, you shouldn't be eating Hostess cupcakes...every freakin' day!
Why is it that all the girls on reality television shows all look like they were manufactured in some fembot factory in Oslo, Norway? And why are we so compelled to watch some dark haired lunkhead fall under their plastic spell?P>
And why is it that I'm only able to fall in love with gay and married men? Do I have a genetic defect? Is it because I like Broadway musicals? I have dated straight men. Honest. Remember Andre? Andre. Why is it I can't even date a straight man without his name sounding gay?
Why is it that only old men give me the eye? Why can't a sensitive, nice-looking, nice-acting, patient, gentle, kind 40 something gaze rhapsodically at me over the frozen peas down at the local grocery store? It could happen. And he'll be so enraptured by my luminous presence, that he won't let my shyness deflect his ardor. No dammit. He'll ask me out like immediately, because I'm just too good to lose. And he can tell this just by looking at me.
And its like in the movies. He'll see me standing there. In the frozen peas department. And everything else will blur out. And then our hands touch, ever so slightly, as we both reach for the Birds-Eye, buy one get one free special. And Gershwin music will start to play (is that too gay?) out over the grocery store intercom, and then we'll live-yuppily-ever-after.
Damn. Why is it that life can't be more like movies?
And why is it that the good things take so god damn long to happen, and the bad things spew forth like 3 year old puking up Cheerios?
And why is it that really obese women have no problem tucking their shirts into their pants, but I always feel like every nonexistent bulge will show, so I untuck everything.
Why is it that by time you pay off your car, its so old and dinged up and in need of expensive repairs, you wonder why you bought it in the first place?
Why is it that Paris Hilton elicits so much adulation when her sole contribution to society has been getting out of a car without underwear on?
Why is it that my cat and I have identical personality traits? Did living in close proximity with me, make her nervous and neurotic? I mean, I don't lick my ass, but the similarity of our personality traits is undeniable. Poor kitty. I'm sorry.
Why is it that when I'm in my house I'm awesome, and when I walk outside I feel invisible? And that does present a problem when I want to be SEEN by the nice forty something guy in the frozen pea department.
Well, you get the idea of the "Why is it that..." game. So take it. Be free. Have some fun. I think I need a nap now.
Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney. All angst copyright by awittykitty