But Enough About Me
What is it called again when you spend all your time worrying that you have hypochondria? Because I think I have that. Sometimes, for no apparent reason, I find myself reciting Martin Scorseses name over and over in a Brooklyn accent. I can never quite reconcile my fear of heights with my love for spitting off tall buildings. People tell me I dont look a day over forty, which is not something a twenty-four-year-old wants to hear.
I never leave the bar without asking at least one woman for her number. And by number, I mean the amount of money she needs to retire. I like dancing. I like parties. But quite frankly I find the combination a little cloying. My nostrils are the true window to my soul. When it comes to qualities I look for in a partner, a sense of humor is second only to a sense of smell.
Under emergency contacts I usually put down glasses. Its a joke that becomes less funny with each passing heart attack. I was once trapped in an elevator for four hours with nothing to eat but a stocked room service cart and an aging bellhop. My poker tell is telling everyone at the table what cards I have. Mom Jeans was my nickname for most of high school. And for all of adulthood.
When I say I can speak fluent French, I mean that I can speak English in a mildly offensive French accent. (Why split hairs?) I suffer from a rare condition in which I cant tell the difference between ventriloquist dolls and small children. My spirit animal is a dog with mange. I try to live every day as if it were my last, which explains the crippling depression. Sometimes I wonder how much different my life would be if I hadnt eaten that battery when I was six.
My vision board doubles as a Ouija board. Im disgusted by the kindness of strangers. I wasnt allowed to have soda as a child, so I had to drink my scotch neat. I have a soft spot for fontanelles. I dont understand pears. This is my last hurrah before I give up last hurrahs for good. Anything you have to say to my sock puppet, you can say in front of me.