My Screw Ups Are Masters of Their Domain

I strongly believe in my limitless potential to screw up. I have made a considerable investment towards a new home for my screw ups on the basis of this conviction. I understand that it may seem like an unreasonable gamble to many. They may find it preposterous that I could screw up any more.

I intend to prove such naysayers wrong at :

Http://DamnIScrewedUp.com

Behold! And tremble in the face of my screw ups.

Navel Lint Gazing

Hm. In my quest for spiritual enlightenment, I realize that I have not made much progress today. I did get a little introspection done. Also some reflection. I guess daydreaming and falling asleep while eating lumpy cereal in front of the TV could count as meditation. Also, I like to chew my food a lot before I swallow. So I guess rumination is covered right there. Oh hey, funnily shaped piece of dandruff. And right there, I actually just managed to squeeze some contemplation into my schedule. I now need some more self-absorption. And an aromatherapy kit.

Brooding and Mysterious

I racked up yet another significant achievement last night: I finally remembered to take a shower. However, I was so overwhelmed by my accomplishment that I collapsed into bed and fell asleep with my hair still wet. This evening, I woke up to find that lacking the strong paternal authority of the hair-dryer, my hair escaped from juvie and vandalized itself. Today, Don King has better hair than me. But wait! This can only enhance my Misunderstood Poet street cred! All I need is some angst and a substance-abuse problem. I already got the beat-up vintage coat.

Dear Santa

Although I have made considerable improvements over last week through diligent application and close study, I forgot to flush the toilet after I used it, for the fourth time this week. This Christmas, I shall ask for the gift of basic hygiene.

Din-Din Does Me In

I had a satisfying and nutritious dinner of many ice cream sandwiches tonight. As I feared, I am now hearing several rumbles of discontent from the help working below my waistline. Leave it to the proles to totally miss the big picture. Thanks for sabotaging my grand new plans to have all-dessert meals from now on, tummy. Excuse me for thinking you could handle a little extra fat and sugar in return for a warm glow of well-being. You agitator types just have no vision.

Sock Sorrow

I don't believe this. It turns out that the saga of my long suffering shirt has a sudden and poignant twist: my socks have remained unchanged since yesterday. And to think that all this time while I was duped into feeling so much sympathy for my shirt's problems, my socks are the real victims here! My socks' tales of trauma are way more moving than those of some mere shirt. What those socks have endured. Dear God. Get over it, shirt. We all have problems.

Everything is Ruined

I have forgotten the words to the 'Golden Girls' theme song. Now I will never know why some lady thanks someone for being a friend. What did this friend do? Did this friend pay for all the body shots every time the Golden Girls went out? Did this friend bail out Bea Arthur and Betty White when they got busted for curb-stomping a rude bouncer? Did this friend help Estelle Getty and Rue McClanahan get new passports for their Colombian trip so Estelle could bring back bags of powdered sugar and baking soda to make her famous carrot cake? Who can tell?

Longtime Companion

I have worn the same shirt for four days now. Or is it five? Time can be so mysterious. Who can understand the way it flows? So hard to pin it down to something as ephemeral as a few days.
Who can say when I'll wash this shirt, when I'll rinse the dirt?
Only time.
Enya should write a song for my shirt. You know actually, maybe for my deodorant instead. It works a lot harder.

A Pyrrhic Victory Over An Uppity Onion

I am conflicted. I was frying some onions but I ended up burning them. Hmm, a setback, to be sure. On the other hand, my undisputed superiority over the vegetable kingdom continues. I feel a sense of satisfaction knowing that as much as the members of this rotund, yet startlingly unapologetic, family make my eyes sting as I chop them, I can still burn them to cinders. Yeahhh, onions, make me cry now, bitch! Oh that's right, you can't. I just turned you into charcoal. Who's weeping now, you crunchy sulfurous bulbs?
Oh crap, they're gonna taste so bad.

Living on the Edge

Mother of God, I reached up to scratch my eye and my hot-sauce anointed finger almost touched it before I realized what I was about to do and I totally yelled "S-tt-o-o-opp-p" and my finger only got an eyelash instead. Now, If I can keep myself from blinking for the rest of the day, I should be able to get through this trauma just fine without getting up to rinse my eyelash and finger. It should be a challenge to refrain from blinking for the next four hours. But I'll do it. Because I believe in freedom.

Spicy Keyboard

I have made an uncharacteristic lapse of judgment. I typed away on my keyboard with my hot-sauce anointed fingers. Finally, my keyboard will go great with hot dogs.

I Make Contact With An Ancient Enemy

I am filled with seething resentment against the smug lid of the bottle of hot sauce that is my constant companion as I toil at my desk. The nozzle of the lid is covered in a primordial goo of hot sauce drops from many moons ago. As I reached out to give the bottle a reassuring pat, I touched the goo encapsulating the nozzle instead. Now, my finger is sticky and gummy and covered in primordial hot sauce goo from many moons ago.

Burrito of Death

My burrito just attacked me. But I endured. Burrito waited until I had downgraded my usual Anti-Falling-Food Threat Level rating from Lilac Dream to Coral Wonder and then...Burrito unleashed a ZRG 4000 Beanatron Mouthful straight from my open mouth down to my pants. NOOOOooo...No, not my white-striped pants ! Pantsy, don't you die on me, stay awake, don't close your eyes...But then, in a singular act of courage and determination, I scooped up the fallen piece from my leg, and I ate it. And that too in slow motion. In yo' face, tasty snack! THIS IS SPARTAAAA

My Left Foot

I sat on my left leg for too long today. My left foot is rather numb. If I had a foot fetish, I could give myself the foot version of The Stranger.