There are some people who appreciate how absolutely random I am at times. There are others who are befuddled by it. Honestly, it doesn't matter to me, although it is kinda warm and fuzzy when people embrace the oddities about you.
Last night, I watched most of, before I fell unconscious, the movie Employee of the Month. Jessica Simpson's character, Amy Renfroe, was really kinda stupid. I know you must be thinking what I did- not much research involved in portraying that role. Maybe Jessica went to Sam's Club in order to familiarize herself with the essence of Amy, but I doubt it. I mostly felt sorry for poor Jessi because she had ginormous ears under all that beautiful, smooth, flaxen hair. It is sad to think of someone so pretty and dumb (which are great traits to look for in a potential bed buddy) with big flappers like that. ** Although I suppose they would make great handlebars in the event she began to steer away from the track, if you know what I mean. ** Amy also had requested a transfer to another store because she gets all horny and hops in bed with the EOM each month. Let's tie back those ears, blondie and I will show how hard I can work to go above and beyond to earn the most prestigious title in the grocery store.
...But I digress...
I drove through Sonic on Friday to get a Strawberry Limeade, which I do every Friday, between 2p-4p is preferable- it is happy hour and all drinks are half price- when the most disturbing thing happened. The gentleman, and I use the term loosely, who took my cash and provided me with my Friday ritualistic beverage, had fingernails. Obviously, everyone has fingernails. But his were long. Not the pinky-coke nail thing. All of them. And I don't mean long as in poor hygeine. I mean long, longer than mine, well manicured, nails. This is disturbing. What is the point in that? I don't believe this man to be a drag queen. I am 99.9% sure he is not a fag (as my gaydar has become much finer tuned over the years.) I was tempted to ask what the purpose was. Maybe he is building something in his backyard and has no tools. Maybe he uses them for clawing at the dirt, or to butter his toast. Maybe there IS a legitimate reason for it. Maybe...
Cut to this morning, I am watching The Butterfly Effect, which I have seen a few years ago, but enjoyed and highly recommend to others. This made me curious about my own repressed memories. Is there some way, although I haven't journaled jack shit, to recall those? I really don't want a nosebleed or a migraine afterward. Nor do I want to change the past. I just want to remember it. I am now on a mission to discover a way for me to recover my own past. I think it can happen.
My random thought process is hard to follow at times. For example- you may say, "Wanna get a milkshake?" To which I might reply, "This guy Tim used to have a purple fishnet thong. It was hysterical." How did I get there, you might say. Take a brain walk with me- Milkshakes are great. I usually get chocolate. My friend Stephenie doesn't like chocolate. She has a daughter names Alyssa, Regan used to call her Melissa. I knew a Melissa once, she was my supervisor at Universal AdCom. The other sup was Tonya. I once hooked Tim up with Tonya. Tim asked if he should wear the purple mesh thong on his date with her. Ahh yes, the purple mesh thong...
And so it goes. I find lots of you just don't let your mind wander enough. If I let mine wander even more, I could possibly discover my own hidden past, the reason for men with long nails, or why they chose big ears for Amy?
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