Last weekend I finally finished the first draft of a thing I am physically incapable of talking about. Now it’s sitting in a folder on my computer, waiting for me to come back to it and give it the rewrite it desperately needs.
I say that because right now it is terrible, and I don’t mean that in an aw, shucks way. I mean that it might actually be pages and pages of random nouns and verbs strung together. The typing monkeys everyone is always talking about are probably producing an exact copy of it at this moment just by slamming their fists into the keyboard. I’m afraid to open The Folder because I’m worried I spent hours and hours of my life working on something and I could have produced the same result by jumbling up a dictionary.
A Mathematical Proof (with no Actual Math)
Given: 1) When someone’s being a jerk, everyone says they woke up on the wrong side of the bed.
2) My bed has four perpendicular sides.
3) I have been acting like a real jerk.
4) This never used to happen.
I need you to know that I am a really fun person. It’s important to remember that as you’re reading the next few paragraphs. I am a fun person who likes fun things, like amusement parks and bubbles and turning pictures of Vladimir Putin into unicorns. I get invited to parties. Hell, I’ve even thrown a party. Once. I AM A FUN LADY AND PEOPLE LIKE ME.
But I am also a teeny, tiny bit anal.
[Editorial Note: In the first draft, that sentence was “I have a little bit of an anal problem,” which would have made this a very different blog post.]
I know what you’re thinking. You never saw it coming. A copy editor who categorizes things into lists in her spare time seems like such an easygoing, loosey-goosey gal! Well you’re wrong. In the words of “Harry Potter”
heroine villain Dolores Umbridge, I will have order.
I’ve always been aware of some charming control freak tendencies, but every so often a moment of terrifying clarity sneaks up on me. I had one such moment today, when I saw this:
I see this one guy around town all the time. We don’t run in the same circles, but we must run in the same Venn diagrams or something because I see him everywhere — on my way to work some mornings, inside a Village Inn at 4am, in the same dive bar on more than a few occasions. (I feel like that Village Inn/dive bar thing made me sound like the kind of person who probably has tetanus. I do not have tetanus, I just like crepes. And dive bars.) I don’t know his name and I’ve only spoken to him once, very briefly and about nothing, but every time we make eye contact he smiles and nods in a friendly way. He’s probably a really nice guy.
I hate his stupid guts.
Ten Things I Hate About You
1. I hate how his awful mustache makes him look like a baseball player from the late 19th century. He’s not a baseball player from the late 19th century. His upper lip is a liar and a fraud.
I started a garden this weekend.
That’s actually a lie.
I tore down a couple of my Murder Sheds this weekend and was left with two rectangular patches of dirt. I spent the next eight hours playing in that dirt, raking up old nails, pulling weeds and respectfully disposing of any mummified cats I found. I surrounded them with a wobbly wall of cobwebby bricks that were piled around my property and proclaimed, “These are my gardens.”
Then I saw a few more weeds and noticed that the ground wasn’t level, so I started digging around in the dirt again. I’ve been doing that for three days now. At this point I’ve dug and re-dug the same empty dirt plot so many times that if my neighbor suspected me of hiding a body and called the police, I wouldn’t even be angry. I’d shake her hand for being so vigilant about reporting suspicious behavior.