Well, my computer is still dead. Don’t worry, I’m still hoping it’s the power supply, I just didn’t get a chance to get one this weekend. Because I know you’re real worried about my computer.
So, Saturday, I rode a motorcycle for the first time! It was THE COOLEST THING EVER. Next to indoor skydiving. I felt like I was in mortal danger the whole time. It was awesome. I could have died.
And that’s pretty much the last thing I remember about Saturday night.
I was already hammered by the time J picked me up on his motorcycle, we went to the bar, I got more hammered, MFSIN showed up and made me do red-headed sluts, which, thankfully, I couldn’t taste, and then I woke up at Q’s. Then I tried to play detective for the rest of the day to figure out what else happened. If you can offer me a scenario that explains all this stuff, I’d really appreciate it.
– A rubber lizard attached to my purse.
– Pink and black paint all over my arm.
– A giant bruise on my hip.
– Red patent leather high heels sitting next to a set of my free weights.
– Someone added “dignity” to my grocery list.
– My ID was missing.
– My hairbrush, cigarettes, compact, and gum were also missing from my purse.
– The following text message in my Sent folder: “Tooth and nail bitchiness is totally my new diet plan.” (Wtf does that even mean?)
– McDonald’s trash on the floor. (Obviously my new diet plan does not include eating healthy food.)
I eventually found my ID (in my pocket, I’m a genius) and the other missing contents of my purse, which were sitting on the steps outside my apartment building, even though I thought I never went home.
And the moral of the story is: Drink enough to have a crazy story to tell, but don’t drink so much that you can’t even remember your crazy story, because a list of things you can’t explain isn’t as funny as being able to tell people how you brought some chick wearing red heels home from the bar and tried to paint her portrait, but then she threw a five pound weight at you and hit you in the hip when you asked her to pose nude, so you stole the lizard she had in her hair and then she took half the stuff out of your purse and threw it out the window, then you went to get McDonald’s, and while you were gone she wrote “dignity” on your grocery list and then left without her shoes. (That didn’t happen.)
A couple months ago, I stepped out of my apartment and something felt wrong. I tapped my feet and listened to them echo on the bare floor.
My doormat was gone.
I thought immediately of that dumb criminal justice commercial where a masked man sneaks up and steals this guy’s doormat, and then the guy opens his door, looks down, and goes, “What the heck??” I, also, thought, “What the heck??” I knelt down and drew a rectangular chalk outline where my doormat had been. Just like the guy in the commercial.
I didn’t really care that the thing was gone, I just couldn’t imagine why someone would take it. It wasn’t anything special or funny. It was just green and navy stripes. It didn’t even say ‘Welcome’, for crying out loud. Maybe somebody had spilled something on it and decided to wash it for me. I couldn’t imagine that anyone around here would be that considerate though.
Weeks passed, and eventually I forgot that I’d ever had a doormat.
Today, I opened my door to find that my doormat had returned.
My doormat. Returned months after its disappearance. Wtf? It seems so much cooler now, like a college kid who’s gone backpacking around Europe for a summer and come back with a new perspective on life.
My doormat has a story to tell. I wish I spoke doormat.
Who fucking took my doormat? And, more importantly, why did they bring it back??