If not the world, then at least the only ones who matter, because clearly you love/like/feel a mild but slightly favourable indifference towards me enough to read this. I thank you.
Anyway world, I've been thinking a lot lately about things I love, and things I loath. Here are my preliminary findings (I am a social scientist after all):
This is just a small sample of things I love. See? I love shoes. I am not a hippie.
I hate Daniel Alfredsson so much that I was angered at having to type his name and spelled it all wrong. Actually, that is a lie. I had already made the chart and finalized it and everything and I'm way too lazy to go back and fix the spelling.
Then there are things I love to loath or loath to love... like driving... or men.
I really love driving. And I do it a lot, so this is a good thing. However, I was driving home tonight and I decided I would be really nice and let this guy in a very sporty lowriding weird shaped car merge in front of me in a construction zone. Well, since everyone drives like idiots in the city, he didn't realize I was doing something nice and we ended up playing some sort of weird edging forward/sideways version of chicken. By the end of it he was waving a thanks to me as he pulled in front of me, just as I exploded into a series of expletives. I then felt guilty, but moments later when I beat his sports car out of an intersection after a red light (yes, I like to see if I can do these things) I realized that I have no sympathy for people who drive cars that they just don't know how to use. If I was driving that thing... man, I would DRIVE that thing. I drive Zoë like she looks like this:
Okay, so I chose the old model because in my head I'm also wearing a glorious red head scarf that goes flying off into the wind as I breeze on by... in reality, this is Zoë:
She's not fancy. She's not powerful. And if you're driving some souped up Mitsubishi and get beaten out by some chickadee in a Hyundai Accent, you have no right to be on my road. GET OFF!
To the men I love to loath/loath to love, you know who you are. It's just some sort of chemical reaction. My boyfriend made this photo art for me. I like to think it's a picture of me falling in love:
See, first I'm like, "You're pretty. I'm going to play my guitar for you and you will fall in love with me because I'm a siren."
Then I really start to fall hard, and my heart flies out of my chest so quickly that this causes the blood in its wake to vaporize (don't ask me why. I'm not that kind of scientist). In the mean time, I've started to bleed from my wrist and
my arm pit. But apparently I'm still really happy about it, and I have a magic ring.
This may be the worst thing I've ever written.