Yesterday was kind of just full of bollocks. I tried to pay it forward to the lovely lady who let me into the Tim Hortons drive-thru line in front of her, until I got to the pay window and said, “Hi there! I’d love to pay for the person behind me too” and was forced to search in my cup holders and under my seats for enough change to cover her $17 bill even though I didn’t even know it was possible to spend that much money at Tim Hortons. Something about good deeds not going unpunished or something like that? I’m underslept and overfed (mmmmm six delicious pounds of emotional eating) this week. I’m stressed about the Bat Mitzvah because the hits just keep on coming (did I tell you that my black shoes arrived and they were, uh, pink?) so an uncomfortable conversation about social media left me feeling crappy and defeated and in tears.
I joke around a lot about being bad at twitter. It’s a self-mock that gets the same response every time: Can a person really be bad at Twitter? And I’m here to assure you that it can be done, and it’s done by this girl right here.
The one who has two thumbs and bad social media skills.
I don’t share enough. I don’t share the right things. I don’t jump into conversations enough. I don’t jump into the the right conversations.
But the biggest problem, I think, is that as a wordsmith by nature and by trade, I’m simply over-the-top verbose. Wordy. I like words and I want to use them—to excess. 140 characters feels almost too claustrophobic to me like I’m stuck in a box that I can’t work my way out of, and it has become almost impossible to get my actual point across. I need a social media platform that allows for 1400 characters.
Oh wait, they do. It’s called a blog.
What I think—in my head—is a funny little quip becomes nothing more than a mess of misunderstanding, and it brings all the boys to the yard. (Oh wait, no, that’s not right.) I walk away with a pat on my back all, “Ha! Ali! You were funny! Good job.” AND YET. People didn’t think it was funny, people didn’t get it, people need to correct me.
I’ll give you a prime example.
As a self-proclaimed quirky girl, I have many things. Weird, funny, interesting things that make me the small weird person that I am. I don’t like drinking from glasses. I don’t like chocolate. I sleep in socks. I don’t like wine. I blow my hair dry in the nude. I don’t eat fruit in dessert. I heat my coffee up in the microwave. I can’t keep a car clean to save my soul.
And I can’t throw very ripe bananas away.
It’s a sickness, really. I have no problems throwing anything away. Leftovers? GONE! Almost empty milk containers? Throw that shit out! At least once a week I clean out a fridge and throw perfectly good food straight into the trash or green bin. I’m a waster—judge all you like. I own it.
But for some reason, bananas MUST be made into banana bread.
There is no other solution.
You guys, bananas cost, like, thirty-nine cents. I should be able to throw them out with abandon. I *am* a waster, after all. I should be able to look them square in the face and say, “BANANAS! You were good while you lasted, we had a really good run, but you are being composted and not destined to be baked into deliciousness. MY ASS WILL THANK ME FOR THIS.”
And the funny thing, really, is that I’m the only person in this entire house who even eats bananas.
And the funnier thing is that I thought people would think it was funny—THE BANANA SICKNESS. Surely there were over sufferers out there; people who just can’t bring themselves to toss a banana.
Instead, people were confused. Was I looking for advice on what to do with leftover bananas? Did I need banana recipes? Did I know that I could put them in the freezer for a rainy day?
This morning I looked those three bananas on my counter in the eye.
And tossed them in my freezer.
Sickness, I say.
You’re welcome, taste buds. Sorry, ass.