(Or: I Am Too God Damned Hot And Sticky To Write A Real Post)

1. In my twenty-one-and-a-half years I’ve managed to learn a lot of things - other languages, how to drive, why it is that people as pale as me should probably just avoid the sun altogether - but I can’t for the life of me blow a god damned bubble. I’m fond of gum, sure, but bubbles? Completely beyond me. My mom left a whopping great bag of Dubble Bubble here the other day and I worked my stubborn way through five or six pieces with no success whatsoever until the aftertaste encouraged me to give up and brush my teeth.

2. Trying to teach myself to blow bubbles is reminiscient of when I was trying to learn to swallow pills. I didn’t actually manage this until maybe my sophomore year of high school - whenever I got strep or whatever they had to give me those chewable antibiotics that resemble chunks of compressed kitty litter in both taste and consistency. This went on until I was what, fifteen or sixteen. I remember hours standing over the kitchen sink trying to force the god damned Advil down my fucking throat already, with any onlookers offering the most frustrating advice you can imagine. “Just sort of toss it to the back of your mouth! Now swallow!”

3. I’m now really, really good at swallowing pills. I take a few vitamins every morning, and at the moment also a couple of generic and weirdly oversized ibuprofen (throat, wrists). I pop all four or five of these giant horse pills at once and wash them down with a mouthful of tap water. If this were a marketable skill (swallowing pills, you pervert) I’d seriously be all set.

4. After all those Red Sox games we went to and all the team sets I faithfully collected when I was younger and unaware of the inherent dorkiness of baseball cards, I feel my brother is completely justified in proclaiming me the spawn of Satan for having become a Yankees fan. I have no excuse except for the completely inadequate moving-to-New-York thing.