No, We Don't Live Here

The doorbell at my house doesn’t work. A couple of weeks ago, after living her for nearly a year, I finally wrote, “Doorbell broken, please knock,” on a slip of paper, and taped it to the glass of our front door.

Since doing that, we’ve had a bunch of people knock on our door—neighbors and things. I wonder how many people pushed the doorbell button, and then just stood there for a while, wondering why the people inside (who they no doubt could hear) didn’t answer.

Today, a young man knocked tentatively in a way that I like to believe meant he wasn’t sure whether to believe my sign or not. Then he had to wait while we herded the hysterically barking dog into the backyard, and while the boyfriend scooped up the less hysterical (and markedly shorter) dog so he could open the door.

He looked befuddled when he saw us, and he asked, haltingly, “Are your parents home…? Or… do you live here?”

I still find this hilarious, because the way he asked this made me feel as though he thought we were perhaps squatting in the home of someone else.

Given the state of our front-room-round-table, I can see how he might think that.

Ron Swanson

Remember, fellas:
torsos should be both thick and
impenetrable.

... of the dead.

Hatfields and McCoys--
The reference is so hidden.
By the way, she's twins.

Vector

That’s ridiculous.
My orange jumpsuit is not
sleeping attire.

Feathery Poof

I have killed at least two animals with my car in the last couple weeks. I hit a sparrow with my right front tire, and it exploded into a feathery ‘poof.’ Then, about a week later, I hit a ground squirrel which ran out into the road, with the same tire. It did not explode into a shower of feathers. I feel worse about hitting the bird. A couple of months ago, I was getting onto the freeway, and the ground squirrels there were playing chicken with the cars. My dad thinks they’re trying to evolve so as to be able to stop worrying about cars at all, and so are simply weeding out the weaklings.

My thumbnail still has not separated from the rest of my body. I clipped the back of the nail some because it was getting caught on things, so the old nail is only covering the end of the nail. I need to clip it again, because that was a couple of weeks ago, although because of how busy I’ve been, it doesn’t feel like it. Every day, when I wake up, my left thumb has reached a new level of disgusting. There is a tiny strip of nail-bed holding the monstrosity onto my hand, and every morning I get one day closer to not being preoccupied all day by one of my fingers.

Cary Candy Everywhere

Father: I was watching an old Cary Grant movie.
Me, about the fried okra: Those are pretty good, dad.
Father: Almost like candy!
Sister: … Cary Grant movies?

Rollin'

For a while now, I’ve hated skateboards on campus, and my only reason is that I hate the noise of them on the textured concrete. It’s a loud, irregular sound which puts my teeth on edge. I would never divulge this feeling to people who ride skateboards, because of course they aren’t doing anything wrong by being on them. I simply have a personal problem, which it is in no way their responsibility to fix.

I’ve been carrying two textbooks, a lab manual, a lab notebook, a spiral-bound notebook, a laptop, a laptop cable, a stapler, a day-planner, post-its, pens, pencils and so on every day for school in a backpack, and it finally caught up with my lower back. This scared me enough that I went to an office supply store with my dad.

“How may I help you?” The lady droned.

“Do you have rolling backpacks?”

“No…” there was a long pause. “We have rolling briefcases, but that won’t work for you.”

“Er, we’ll check them out.”

“Aisle 18,” she said, skeptically.

We found a rolling backpack which would work just fine, and purchased it.

When I got to school the next morning, with all of my stuff tucked away in my rolling briefcase, I realized something horrific. It makes the exact same sound as a skateboard does on the concrete.