Nopocalypse Now!

Cue Marlon Brando, hissing in the shadows: The horror! The horror!

Not.

I don't know about you, but the whole Rapture non-event was more like the Napture. Think the Universe's lackey hit the snooze button. And I was really hoping to see fireworks of epic proportions because, as you know, my life is in serious need of roman candles, whistling snakes, and bottle rockets; and damn if the most exciting thing I did all weekend was shave my legs.

Oh wait, no, I did not shave my legs. Not really a need...

My friend George thinks we need t-shirts that say, "I survived the Nopocalypse of 2011" so I'm having some made up.

Who knows. Maybe we'll have really bad better luck in December, 2012. I'm totally not even buying Christmas presents next year, just in case some nut job is actually right about the Earth losing its shorts because of the big fat cookie jar of sins we've accumulated as a society for the last several thousand years. (And you thought it was just because of those modern hedonistic liberals.) I'd venture that a full century of random fornicating in the back seats of parked cars has been the most blatantly egregious of sins, along with the second coming of gladiator porn and Twilight worship, and likely the entire cause of the planetary F.U. to all us beings with so-called advanced brains.

Oh well. I'm giving this year's Napture a thumbs down for apocalyptic failure. In case you were wondering.
|

Tweet

WTF Wednesday: The Horror!

Yesterday, my friend invited me to attend a Chamber of Commerce mixer with her. "Dress hot," she advised, for good-looking men abound.

Stuck in traffic on I-35, I replied flaccidly, "Awesome," my tone sucking the steam right out of the word. But then it occurred to me that I am still single and could actually meet someone interesting there. I brightened, and accepted her invitation for this evening.

But this morning, upon looking in the mirror, I saw something that made me recoil in horror. A zit. Not just any zit, but a zit positioned prominently on my chin, waving the ugly flag and shouting, Look at me, look at me, LOOK. AT. ME!

It's not enough that I've sprouted the occasional man-whisker (ever since my hormone saturation levels dwindled to the depth of pond scum). Now I have to contend with the haunting glow of a ZITgeist, and there's no exorcising it in time for the mixer -- though Holy Father of Demonomania, I have tried.

I thought getting older meant moving beyond social awkwardness, which is a sure bet to be my calling card for tonight. People will say, "Why don't you zit down over there." And "The economy is in a zitiful state, isn't it?" Or "Oh, zit! Look at the time!" All memory of me in everyone I meet will be -- yes, blemished.

Why is there no zitmus test for your social life where, upon consideration of your RSVP, an instant color would flood your eyes with a "go" or "no-go" signal. Green: Zit-free, baby. Hokey pokey all night! Or, red: Whoa there, Bride of Freddie Krueger! Stay out of the public eye!

Oh, the horror. The horror!
----------------------------------
Update: I just found a nice coffee stain on my crisp white blouse (apparently from nearly falling out of my car this morning). Right. Over. My Left Nipple. OMFG. People won't know whether to not stare at my zitty chin chin or my boob. I am an equal opportunity disaster today.

Tweet