Let me start this letter by saying that at one point, I had high hopes for you. You would go grocery shopping every Sunday, stock me with fruits and vegetables, and actually consume healthy meals. But recently, you’ve been acting like a sad college freshman who steals bread and bananas from the Emerson campus cafeteria. Except now you’re 32 and you’re supposed to actually be able to take care of yourself like an adult.
It’s been a gradual decline into this level of pathetic-ness. Week by week, my food reserves have become more and more sparse, and now I have to call you out. My primary job is to keep water cold and to store half-stale bottles of salad dressing and hot sauce. The few times I do contain food, it’s jars of banana peppers which you greedily consume in two days. And don’t get me started on what you’ve been eating for dinner. Starburst is only considered dinner when you’re 5.
And what’s with the Red Bull? You hate Red Bull. Yet there’s always a nice tidy 4-pack chilling on my middle shelf. Watching you guzzle a can before your 7am workout is entertaining, mostly because your face contorts in a hideous wince as you realize it tastes like sugary carbonated poison.
One last thing: stop making a New Years Resolution to learn how to cook. You’ve failed at it every year since 2003. No one believes you anymore. Just own it and accept the fact that you’ll never graduate past heating up soup. And you’ve even messed that up a few times.
Love, your Kenmore
So my beloved coworker Ershley thought it would be funny to install this dating app called Tinder on my iPhone while I wasn’t paying attention. I’d never heard of it and had no idea how it worked. Apparently it pulls a few photos from your Facebook profile, only allowing people to see a few minimal details like your age, location, and first name. So you see a person’s photo, and swipe left if you think they’re creepy or unattractive, and swipe right if they pass initial inspection. If you swipe right on their photo, and vice versa, then you’re alerted that you’re a match. My only question is…
Doesn’t this seem shallow?
Ershley argues that it’s not shallow- if you meet someone at a bar/ club/ shopping for banana peppers, you’ll be judging them on their looks anyways. But whatever happened to striking up conversation and getting to know someone before passing the “attraction judgement?” I realize that dating sites are more popular than ever and in this increasingly digital universe, some people have had awesome luck meeting a mate this way. But even on other dating sites, I’ve heard you at least get more of a glimpse into someone’s personality. Tinder seems like the app equivalent of Regina George from Mean Girls.
Should I tell Ershley that as payback, I set her up on date with 25 year old Mike with the big muscles in the banana costume….or just let her find when he calls her?
I admit, I should subscribe to Lynda.com and buckle down and watch Youtube tutorials. My mounting anger toward Indesign is my own fault. I freely admit this. However…
WHY MUST INDESIGN BE SO INCREDIBLY COMPLICATED?
If you’re one of those smartypants people who can fluidly navigate between billions of Photoshop layers and use the Magic Eraser tool without any problems (seriously, what does that even do?!?), then I applaud you. Photoshop and Illustrator are awesome for designing and creating beautiful things. Indesign’s a total poser who’s trying to ride on those coattails. Indesign is like the little brother who’s jumping up and down squeaking “Look at me! I’m cool! Look at me!”
But it can’t fool me. I know it was invented by Satan and gets manufactured from a fiery rung in Hades. And every time I open a file and the devilish little window rudely reminds me that I’m missing fonts, I want to throw a hot pitchfork at Satan and tell him exactly where he can stick those missing fonts.
Sadly, my wallet was relieved of its duty to keep my license, credit cards, insurance info, and loose pennies all in one safe convenient spot yesterday. The upside is that it was stolen during a fabulous celebration for Gay Pride in West Hollywood. I like to think that my wallet was swiped by a unicorn, who needed it to purchase Skittles and glitter and fairy dust. Then the unicorn would sneak into a bar with my ID and slurp up ambrosia while having its horn shined with angel tears. Then it would shimmy around to “It’s Raining Men” while its luscious unicorn mane delicately glides through the air. So if you see a beautiful thiefy unicorn gliding around WeHo, please tell him that I’d really like my wallet back now.
I realize this meme hit the worldwide interwebs over a year ago, but its existence has permanently infiltrated my brainwaves. Honestly. I’ve started to think, write, and speak in Ermahgerd. I’ve started calling my beloved coworker Ershley (translation: Ashley). At work, I write perpersals (formerly known as proposals). Last week I attended a Serminer (seminar) and caught the church giggles because Ershley wrote on her notebook that she was enjoying the Werksherp.
If you live under a rock and haven’t seen this meme, do yourself a favor and educate yourself. It will truly enrich your life.