Tag Archives: blogging

Your Daily Dose Of Paranoia

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This is a snapshot of my life on any given day.  …Piles of unopened mail.  …30 different notepads with in-decipherable scribbles of random thoughts that I’ve written down when I was supposed to be hanging out with someone.  After Easter, the Cadbury chocolate bar could be easily substituted for Reeses or anything but Milk Duds.  …Vitamins I’ll stare at all day with every good intention, but won’t ever get up to refill my water so I can actually take them.

So the other night, my stomach started hurting really, REALLY bad.  I was perplexed.  I stared over at the pile of randomness on my desk, searching for clues, when it hit me. I just polished off an entire bowl of pistachios.  Wait… wasn’t there a national recall on pistachios last week because they were infected with Salmonella?  Crap.

It’s not my fault.  My mom calls me every night and runs down a new list of things I should be paranoid of. Example of our weekly conversations:

MONDAY NIGHT

Mom: Don’t go to Target.

Me: Like,  ever?

Mom: Well, some girl got her purse stolen last night.  I guess there are these guys that hang around the parking lot and they ask if they can borrow your phone or something then they rob you.

Me: You think I would fall for that? Do you forget that I lived in London all by myself?

Mom:  I’m just saying.  It’s not safe these days for a girl to go out on her own after dark.  I’d just prefer if you were with someone. Will you just tell me you’ll always be with someone?

Me:  Of course. My friends are always available when I need to pick up Q-tips and some cereal on a Friday night.

Mom:  Mmm, cereal. That sounds good. I think I’m gonna have a bowl.

TUESDAY NIGHT

Mom:  Hey what are you doing?

Me: I’m running errands.

Mom: You aren’t at Walmart are you?   If you are, leave.

Me:  Wait, what?

Mom:  Did you hear about what’s happening at WALMART?!?

Me:  Sigh.  No… but I’m not too worried cus you’re probably gonna tell me.

Mom:  Well, there’s gonna be some gang initiation and they are supposed to shoot three girls.  So I wouldn’t go there for at least a couple weeks.  Oh, and avoid pistachios cus they’re all infected with Salmonella. Oh, did you see American Idol tonight? That Adam Lambert is my favorite, do you think he’s gay?

WEDNESDAY NIGHT

Mom:  What are you doing?

Me: Writing.

Mom:  I figured.  ….Well, you know, you just couldn’t pay me to fly anywhere these days.  Did you see that 20/20 where the spies got onto the planes with knives and tear gas?

Me:  But mom, you haven’t flown since 1969 cus you’re terrified of it.  It has nothing to do with Terrorism, you’re just trying to get the point across that I shouldn’t fly.

Mom: NO I’M NOT.  But I wouldn’t advise it.  So whatcha writing about?

So somewhere in the shuffle of more pressing concerns, the pistachio crisis was forgotten.   That combined with the fact that they are just so so delicious.

 I didn’t stand a chance.

The Easter Bunny Can Suck It

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It’s Easter.  I’m sitting next to my dad in church.  All of the sudden, right before the service starts he turns to me and grabs my arm:

Dad: Oh, you know what?

Me: What’s that?

Dad: I heard Yanni is coming out with a new CD.

If this conversation isn’t the right way to kick off Easter, I don’t know anything.  You know, I don’t know if any of you have noticed, but Easter just isn’t what it used to be.  Nice new bonnet.  An Easter basket half the size of my room, with giant, oversized pixie stix and Reese’s eggs cascading out of it like a waterfall...it’s beauty only to be matched by the monstrocity of a stuffed rabbit that accompanied the basket.  All these things are but a distant memory, like braces, and Big League Chew.

scan00011So I’m chillin with the fam.  UPDATE: In case it crossed your mind, my grandma was wearing the same polyester, frog green pants that she wore on Thanksgiving, as chronicled in Black Friday, Depression, and a Salvation Army Chair.  So I go to sit next to my aunt on the couch and this happens:

Me: HGTV?  Really?

Aunt:  Well, we could watch a movie.  I have Marley and Me, did you say you’ve seen that already?

Me: Yea.  It was good, and I don’t think anyone else has seen it.

Aunt: So it was good?  Want me to put that in then?

Me: I mean, I don’t care.  I’m just working on these articles.  So it makes no difference, whatever everyone else wants to do.

Aunt: [turns to my uncle] Honey, Britteny said for you to put in Marley and Me.  She wants to watch it.

Me: [interrupts] No, I did not.  That’s not what I said.  I said I’ve already seen it and I don’t care.  You said you wanted to watch it.

Aunt: Well, I know.  But if I say that you’re the one who wants to watch it, he’ll just put it in.

Me: Sigh.

Aunt: Uh oh.  Is this conversation going to be a blob now?

Me: Well, it wasn’t until you called it a blob.

Throughout the whole movie my grandma keeps whispering to my aunt that she’s seen this movie before.  We all know this isn’t true.  For the sake of illustration, I’ve dubbed my grandma “frog pants.”  When the movie is over, everyone is teary eyed, yet a fight breaks loose:

Frog Pants:  Oh goodness, you guys are getting this sad? It’s just a dog for Pete’s sake. [as my aunt’s two boxers are staring up at her from the floor]

Aunt: Dogs are like part of the family, Ma.

Frog Pants:  Well, not ones that act like that thing.  I’ve seen this before, I could have told you every thing that was going to happen.

Me: No.  No you haven’t. I promise.  You don’t go to movies.  You don’t rent them.  And you live in an assisted living complex.  Where did you see it?

Frog Pants:  I don’t recall when I saw it, but I’m not gonna sit there while you guys make me out to be some kind of liar.  I remember that dog hanging out the window of the car.

Me & Aunt: [simultaneously]  That was a commercial!

Me:  When did you watch it then?  Because it just came out on DVD.

Aunt:  Ma, are you getting Alzheimers?

Frog Pants:  Goodness gracious. Just drop it.

   

Oh Yea, That Time I Got Dysentery In Mexico

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I’m putting on the cloak of honesty right now.  It’s not even mine, I borrowed it permanently from a friend.  But still, you know what’s coming.

Please listen carefully:  All my Facebook amigos, I love you.  Really, I do.  Because of this ingenious billion dollar idea, [that again, I couldn’t seem to have thought of because I was too busy planning other people’s weddings or dating inappropriate men or getting dysentery in Mexico] I’ve gotten in touch with a lot of you who I probably would have never heard from again.  Ok, so maybe it wasn’t so genius.  That being said, you should know that the very moment you completed one of those ridiculous quizzes you were deleted from my status updates…

You have not and will not be given a second chance.  I apologize, I wish I were as kind as God.  I have so many tragic and exciting updates to scroll through, that I can’t take time to read about “What Your Favorite Color Says About You” or “What Breed Of Dog Are You Most Like.” Well guess the heck what?  That’s pretty fricken lame and you’re never gonna be a Jane Austin character OR a country.

So back when I was 19, I was in a wedding. Three weeks later I ended up in Xalapa, Veracruz with a girl who was also in the wedding.  Alright, well I guess that’s it.  Have a good day!  …So this girl had studied abroad in Mexico and wanted to go back.  For some ungodly reason, I cleared out my bank account and volunteered to go with her to a foreign country, known for human trafficking and drug smuggling.

hair-gel-mexicoI’m going to go ahead and say that this was one of the best times of my life. We had absolutely no agenda for our trip except eating enchiladas, getting tan, not throwing up, and salsa dancing every night.

I’d like to take a moment to point out some of the the highlights of my trip.  If you’ll notice in the picture, that is me standing atop one of the oldest and steepest Mayan Pyramids, which was a five mile hike from civilization, in 100% humidity and 110 degree weather.  Have I mentioned that I can’t usually walk to my kitchen without needing a puff from my inhaler?  You’ll also notice that I’m wearing platform sandals, which I wouldn’t recommend for such an ambitious feat.  You should also know that I’m scared of heights. You should also know that this is the exact moment when I started to get amoebic dysentery, or something akin to it, from accidentally using tap water to brush my teeth.

I had to be carried half of the way back.  Oh, did I mention there are no toilet seats in this part of Mexico? And did I mention that a mean lady rations you one square of toilet paper when you walk in the bathroom?

We stayed with some college guys.  They were possibly the nicest and most hilarious people I’ve ever met – I couldn’t understand a word they said.  Hold the phone…I may have just discovered the secret to marital bliss. They constantly played these ridiculous Cd’s of American top 100 love ballads – like the discontinued ones that they throw in the dollar bin along with Amy Grant cassettes. They tried to sing along.  It sounded absolutely ludicrous.  You better believe when I left, I gave them a Michael Bolton Greatest Hits CD.

I spent the majority of my days trying to get them to say the word Walmart, because they couldn’t pronounce the letter “w” and for some reason, I found it to be the best free entertainment I’d ever had.  Actually I think I might pull out those videos tonight, I could use a cheap laugh.

mangosOh yea, then there was that time that the boys took us to a random person’s mom’s house and she cooked us a Mexican feast.  I happened to mention that I liked mangoes and some guy spider monkeyed up a tree to hack some down with a machete. I have no idea what his name was.  He was forever memorialized as Tarzan mango guy.

I have so many more stories, it’s a shame.  Honestly though, I’ve never met kinder people in all my life.  It was a fabulous time.  I’ve never been so sick, yet so afraid to seek medical help.  I thought I was going to throw up my spleen.

Paris Can Bite Me

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I want you all to know that it’s so deliriously late right now that I don’t even have any midnight oil left, I’m running on fumes.  Or smoke.  Or whatever would be left after you’ve burnt a crap ton of oil.  Coldplay is my only companion at such an hour, so consider yourselves a priority.  And I’m about to mesmerize you with an amazing story much like the late night infomercial I’m currently watching that has rendered me speechless with it’s magical powers of persuasion.

But, wait, don’t you always burn the midnight oil, therefore, this blog right now really isn’t much of a sacrifice?

What is this CSI?

So. Paris guy.  I’ve briefly mentioned him a couple times, and many of you have asked for further detail.   Well, I’m going to give it to you so you can stop your begging already… you’re more pathetic than my Italian grandma on Thanksgiving.

grandma

grandma:  Look at all this food.  Oh goodness sakes, what am I gonna do with all of this FOOD?  Will someone eat something, please?  Britteny,  can I dish you up some more potatoes, doll?

me:  I can’t breathe.

grandma:  [sounding as if she might burst into the ugly cry] Well, what did I make all this food for then? I don’t have anywhere to put it.  I thought I told you kids to bring your appetites.  Doesn’t anything taste good?  Oh, now it’s going to go to waste.  We can’t waste food, God won’t appreciate that.

me:  It tastes great. Exactly like every Thanksgiving for the past 26 years of my life when we’ve had this conversation.

grandma:  This is terrible. And so is my food. [welling up]

So Paris Guy and I dated a little over a year. He would also be the ex that inspired the blog “Teenage Acne and an Italian Boyfriend” in case you’re wondering.  I discovered he had proposed to his previous fiance in Disneyland.  Wha?

ex: You haven’t ever been to Disneyland?  I can’t BELIEVE that!  I’m taking you there soon.

me: No you’re not.  I am not going to Disneyland.

ex:  But it’s so much fun.

me: How would that be fun for me?  I throw up on rides and Mickey Mouse creeps me out and I hate fairy tales.

Anyway, things were getting rough.  I needed to breathe.  I did what any sensible girl would do in my situation:  I ran away to London.  Of all the great lengths I’ve gone to in my life, I’d have to award myself 5 stars for pulling off this shennanigan.  But then, he came to take me to Paris on Valentine’s Day and my roommate accidentally told me he wanted to propose.  Great.

paris1

I had specifically warned him that I was not ready for marriage.  I wanted to be done with school first.  When we arrived in Paris, I came down with influenza almost instantaneously after setting foot on French soil (my stomach was either rejecting the vast amount of grease I was about to consume, or the impending proposal, or just the French in general).  As we toured the city, in pouring down hail, I could barely hold my head up.  He then took me to see a show at the Moulin Rouge, which ended with him leaving his wallet in the cab and us wandering around the red light district for several hours with no money or way to get home.  The romance was so thick in the air, that I nearly said yes.

cinderellas_castleHe left me with the ring, I don’t know why. Then he went off the deep end and tried to sabotage all my friendships back home… some of the not as close friends actually fell for it.  After I got back, he coerced me into couple’s therapy, but I eventually tried returning the ring, but it got stolen out of my glovebox when I let one of my friends borrow my car.

And I lived happily ever after without him.

 

The Hole In My Head: Explained

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The only thing that I might find creepier than Neil Diamond or V8 juice would be toddler beauty pageants. That being said, let’s discuss the hole in my head.  Since mention of the injury in my last post seemed to cause a great deal of stress for most of you, I thought I’d take a brief moment to explain this before your blood pressure rises to unprecedented levels.

It was the Spring of 1997.  The air was hot and so was her white fiberglass Saturn sport coupe.  It was a stick shift (which was a really bad idea since she could barely drive the lawn mower).  This very car would eventually lead to her almost-death.

One rainy night, Blunt was driving around aimlessly.  The next thing she remembers is laying on a stretcher and staring up into the night sky, thinking “Is this a dream?  Why can’t I feel my body?  Crap. I’m about to die.  Or maybe I did drugs? No. I’m dying. Here we go.” [[[[back to unconsciousness]]]]    The next thing she remembers is being in an ambulance with 6, possibly 7, very hot paramedics.

Hot Paramedics: Do you have any pets?

Blunt:  Um, I have 4 cats: Pebbles, Bam Bam, Mittens, and Muffin.  … I named them when I was five okay?

Hot Paramedics:  You were in an accident.

Blunt:  You’re kidding. Was it my fault?!?  My dad is going to KILL ME. [[[[back to unconsciousness]]]]]

saturn-sport-coupeThe next day she would awake to find herself in the ICU wearing a neck brace, with various tubes coming out of her and over a hundred stitches in her head.  Apparently, she had been struck by a drunk driver in a large Astrovan, directly on the driver’s side.  But would you expect anything less from someone in an Astrovan? The impact was so hard that it somehow managed to cause a piece of her skull (about the size of a half dollar) to break off and press on her brain.   “Oh you’ve got to be kidding me,” she thought, “three weeks before prom?” The doctors weren’t sure if she would be normal and said if it was a millimeter closer she would be paralyzed for life.    ***Status on the car: lets just say that pieces of it were scattered in various directions.  Bye bye sweet Saturn sport coupe.

Doctor:  We might have to do brain surgery.

Me:  WHAT? Why?

Doctor:  Well to relieve pressure on your brain.   And to extract the bone and glue it back to your head.

Me: Will I have to shave my head?

Doctor:  Only the left side.

Me:  Well, that’s out of the question.  What if I don’t have the surgery?

Doctor:  Well, you could have several side effects and if you ever get hit in that spot again you’ll die.   That means, no accidents, no “rough housing,”  NO SPORTS.

Me:  Doctor, no offense, but do you know me at all?   That certainly won’t be a problem.

For a month I could not move, shower, or wash my bloody, crusty hair.  Tons of visitors came, only to be kicked out by the nurses.  It was a great time.  So, I left my head as it was.  I have had none of the anticipated side effects of the injury, except some VERY BAD headaches and some memory loss.  Oh, and the occasional panic attack, which probably has less to do with the hole in my skull and more to do with the crippling insanity of my daily life.

After much prodding, I was released the DAY OF PROM. Phew.   My first stop: the tanning salon.  Please, I had a white dress okay.  Then, I passed out from overheating and not having any food in my system.

Then there were a plethora of “airhead” jokes at school, and every other possible reference to how I was missing part of my head.  Don’t feel bad, I came up with most of them.

Holy Crapballs, That Was A Person

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Every single time I get into my car, first of all, I check for flooding (yes, my car floor fills with water when it rains) and second of all, I prepare myself for the possibility that I will commit involuntary manslaughter at some point.   I might be the WORST driver in this city.  Maybe even the tri-state area.  Well, at least the small radius from my house to Ohio.  Friends: I’m extending an invitation for you to leave a comment stating proof of this fact if you’d like.  (If you can’t focus cus you’re still stuck on that flooding car thing, I have no clue where the water comes from, why it’s there, or how to make it stop.)  (Friends: please note that invitation expires after this post.)

So the other day, I’m driving with one of my friends and this conversation takes place:

Friend: Holy crapballs, that was a person.

Me: Where? 

Friend: Behind us.  Standing in shock cus they almost died.  Did you not see them or what?

Me:  No.  I was looking for a sweet parking spot so you won’t have to walk in the rain.  

Friend:  How about I’ll be happy to walk in the rain in exchange for not assisting in murder.

Me: You say that now, but you’ll be singing a different tune when your hair starts to frizz.

Friend: Why do I continue to go places with you.

Me: Okay.  Do I not warn you every time you get in this car of my horrible driving skills and that you’re putting your life at risk?

Friend: Yes, you do.  But I…

Me:  And do I not always make it a fun experience?

Friend: I guess.  But you don’t obey any traffic laws, and…

Me: And do you not feel more alive and appreciative of your life after you get out of the car?  Is the sun, not a bit brighter?  The grass, a bit browner? 

Friend:  Definitely. more. appreciative.

Me: So can you stop already with the melodramatic whine fest.  I told you I haven’t gotten into an accident since I was 16.

Friend:  But you have a HOLE IN YOUR HEAD because of that accident.

Me:  That’s correct.  And I’m definately more appreciative of my head now.

What Women Really Want

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Come on in.  Pop open a cold one (non-alcoholic, of course, cus I need you to keep it classy and focus on what I’m saying).  Grab all your friends and sit Indian style on the mat.  Please don’t be concerned if you can’t sit Indian style, the more important problem is, why don’t you have any friends?   Men, I especially want you to listen up.  Hurricane honesty is about to blow you away.   Sorry Mary, there’s no spoonful of sugar with this Robitussin.  Just the cold,  green, mystery flavor your mother used to shovel down your throat.  So let’s recap what we already know:

1. We want you to be nice. But not too nice, Nicey McCallaghan.

2. We want you to pay attention to us. But watch it, Smothery McFerguson.

3. We want you to give us our way. But only half the time, Doormat McPushoverPants.

Alright, so now that I’ve given you a month to digest that very scientific and logical information, we can move on to Part II:

christina-aguilera-and-husband4.  We want you to be funny. But not a comedian with a complex that has to make a joke out of everything or he has no self-worth because he used to get beaten up at the bus stop or something.  Got that?  If you can’t make us bust a gut, then it’s OVER, Snoresville McGee.  You know how you always get perplexed when you see a fine lookin lady with an awkward geek who is unfortunate looking?  Well that’s cus she just dumped her rich, gorgeous underwear model for the guy who works the late shift at Taco Bell because he cracked a joke when he handed over her Chalupa.   Yea.  I never said these were smart decisions.  But they are what we choose, nonetheless.

5. We want you to be manly. But over the years it seems that you’ve taken this to mean stubbly and un-showered with a beer belly?  No, no.  Just because you shower, shave regularly, and don’t wear brown shoes with black pants it doesn’t mean that you’re not a man.  P.S.  it won’t KILL you to do a face mask or a pore strip once in a while.  You’ll still be allowed to shoot people on Call of Duty.

6. We want you to be romantic. The problem is, you’ve taken this idea of “romance” and twisted it into a pretzel of ungodliness.  It’s downright scary, what you’ve done.  I think the underlying roses-with-babies-breathproblem is somewhere along the line there was a glitch in the matrix and you guys got terribly confused by the term: romantic.

I’ll tell you what it doesn’t mean: red roses with baby’s breath (and perhaps a fern), heart-shaped pendant necklaces (actually, heart-shaped anything), stuffed animals with mushy sayings, “gamble chocolates” with mystery fillings, or an attempt at writing us poetry.  [[Sigh]]   So really, the bottom line here is creativity.  So maybe we should rephrase this to say – we want you to be creative.

Can I get a witness ladies?

Remember it.  Write it down.  Fold it up.  Tuck it in your jockstrap.  And have a more successful life.

You’re welcome.

 

Are You The Sheriff Of Losertown?

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It’s time for some tough love.  This is one instance where I do encourage you to follow in the footsteps of my petite and sufficiently pumice-stoned feet. 

There comes a time in your life when you realize that the majority of your friends are on the slow train to nowhere.  Such a time came for me about three years ago.  My heartfelt apology to everyone I was hanging out with around that time. The problem is that when all of your friends are losers, it takes you quite awhile to realize it. 

This is because as a collective group of losers – you don’t seflowbee-haircutem so bad.  In fact, collectively, you’re pretty fun.   No steady job, no direction, no responsibility.  All the loserness makes for a rather exciting, carefree existence – but the problem is that it can suck you in like a Flowbee and start a downward spiral of which you may never see the end.   But, you ask, how do I know for certain if I am, indeed, the sheriff of Losertown?

Well, as you may have guessed, I have the answer.  I’ve developed a fool-proof 5 point questionnaire, entitled:  How To Know If You Are The Sheriff Of Losertown

1.  Are at least 75% of your friends college dropouts or permanently “taking off a year to save money / experience life / figure out what they want to do?“

2.  Is grabbing food from anywhere but the dollar menu with them just not an option?

3. Do most of your friends avoid going to the doctor for what could be a life threatening illness because they “can’t afford health insurance?”

4.  Do you notice that these same friends always have the latest and greatest phone/crackberry, video gaming system, or Apple product- yet continue to whine about not being able to afford their own place, an oil change, or dentist visit for their skankalicious teeth?

5.  When you talk about long term goals and aspirations [while you guys are hanging out at Perkins / Ihop / or Dennys at 3 a.m. where only half of you are actually ordering food] are you often met with looks of disorientation?

Now.  I definitely fit in to some or ALL of these categories at one point, but I broke free – which is especially hard in my piece of crap town, where all you want to do is find ways to kill time until you hopefully end up in a nursing home with a courtyard view.  So that means you can do it too.  Chin up.

Look, Do You Want To Die?

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I’m sure you’d never guess it now, but I was a strange child. I grew up in the country so my days consisted of collecting caterpillars, creating my own farmer’s market,  and attempting to build tree forts that definitely endangered the safety of not only my life but also of my one neighbor friend that actually lived on my dead end street.  Of course, he was a boy so that didn’t help my quest for girlishness.  We were like Forrest and Jenny -except we never ended up dating.  Or having an illegitimate child.  Or getting AIDS.

My other neighbor, Bill, was a farmer so we’d play around on his tractors and then go back to his house where it always smelled like catfish and cigarettes. (they thought they still lived in Mississippi)  He and his wife were typical farmers,  missing a couple teeth and living on black coffee.  I don’t think I owned one single doll except for the cabbage patch my grandma bought me.  And I’m quite sure I threw up on that.

A nerd right from the get-go, I would gravitate to the office supplies aisle every time we stepped foot in a store.   In the picture you will see that I’m sitting in an actual school desk – one of the most amazing purchases my mom has ever made for me.  Still.   And as you’ll see from the picture, I’d sit and write in my closet for HOURS and HOURS.  Even from a young age, it was all I wanted to do.  I think if most people would think back on their childhood, they’d discover that their interests haven’t changed that much. Aside from picking their nose and stuff.

chris-brit

Speaking of my one childhood neighbor, do any of you remember a period of  about 1-2 years where you were TERRIFIED OF ALIENS???!? Cus, it’s very vivid in my mind. I don’t know what was up, but there was some kind of alien frenzy going on during my younger years.  It was all over the talk shows – people talking about being abducted and what not.  Anytime I was outside I’d keep a close watch on the sky and strange noises.  Of course, I was always protective of my friends even back then.  One time, I was playing softball with my neighbor and his brother.  There must have been a bunch of planes nearby, but as soon as I heard the noises, I immediately took action:

me:  STOP WHAT YOU’RE DOING!!!

boys:  What? Why?

me:  GET IN THE GARAGE!!!!!

boys:  the garage?  but we’re in the middle of a ….

me: JUST DO IT!  DON’T ASK QUESTIONS!

boys:  but…. I …

me:  LOOK, DO YOU WANT TO DIE?!

Dilemma: Finding “The One”

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Lately, I’ve received alot of questions to the effect of “how do I find the one?”  Well, it just so happens that I have more than a few answers up my very svelte sleeve.  I’ve spent weeks, possibly even months [if I were to have logged all my time] researching and compiling data for what I am about reveal to you.  As per usual, you can expect to pay not a single PENNY for the knowledge that I am about to impart upon you!  It is but merely the beginning of a lifetime of benefits that you will reap by reading this blog.  How shall I be compensated, you ask?  The smile on your face.

For many of you, it’s not that you’re unlucky, you’re just looking in all the wrong places.  As you can imagine, I’m going to break the disturbing news to you right now.  You’re never going to find creme brulee on the Taco Bell menu, and unfortunately, you never will  [because it would be awesome to be able to get a Chalupa and creme brulee all in one stop].  I will further demonstrate my point in the following chart.  Please study it with ravenous desire.  memorize it.  picture it.  dream about it at night.  frame it on your wall.  tape it to your fridge.  fold it up into a teeny tiny piece and carry it next to your heart… for contained therein you will find the answer to one of life’s most perplexing questions.

dating-finding-the-one

Now, if you look carefully, you will observe that you have equal chances of meeting your future mate in: rehab, space camp, a safari, solitary confinement, or your mailbox.  But now I want you all to take out your microscopes because we’re going to delve into this and chizzle away to find out how this affects your dating life.  With closer analyzation, you will discover that you actually have a greater chance of meeting your future mate in solitary confinement, than you do at the bar.

staggering?  perhaps groundbreaking?
something to think about.