I try. I swear to God, I try. But some days, despite my best efforts, I still end up with a day like this:
Awaken with Whitney Houston's "I've Got Nothing" stuck in my craw, complete with dramatic phrasing. Inside my head sounding something like:
[forte] "I've got NOTHING!
[piano] If I don't - have- you-uuuuu."
Repeat approximately 2,500 (+/-) times, you have my moring and afternoon.
Because I have nothing better to do, I contemplate how that song got there.
Realize, Oh yeah, the day before I read somewhere where a girl had gotten the phone number of a semi-famous MTV reality-TV star and though she wasn't naming him, she had mentioned he was a son of a very famous athlete and stepson to a famous producer. I was pretty sure I knew who she was talking about, but to confirm my suspicions, I IMDB'ed Br*dy Jenner (from MTV's The Hills, a show I am inexplicably into) where I was proven correct.
However, as I read his bio, I noticed that his mom is Linda Thompson-something or other and that she is listed as an actress and also "soundtrack", whatever that gig is. Thinking this name looked familiar as a producer/creator for a few shows I used to watch back in the day (Designing Women being one), I clicked on her IMDB link to figure out this edge-of-your-seat "mystery". Going thru her profile, Linda Thompson-something or other is married to David Foster and shares an Oscar with him for Best Original Song for the song (wait for it) "I Have Nothing"- a song used in the Whitney Houston flick, The Bodyguard. Boy. I also learned thru my extensive research that the Designing Women creator is Linda Bloodsworth-Thomason. Am colored impressed with myself because, this show came out in 1986... when I was THIRTEEN. How or why I can recall something this random and insignificant to my daily life and not other fairly important things kind of frightens me.
Also goes without saying: I really, really need to get a life.
After a day of Whitney Houston's "I've Got Nothing" on repeat and realizing that I need to get a life, I headed off to the gym. The gym, much like this assine song being soundtracked into my brainwaves, was no fun at all. I had no energy, felt as though I had accomplished nothing and it was a complete waste of my time. This put me in a somewhat salty mood. No big whoop but my mood only fueled my next (dumbass) move.
Having left the gym, it was around 8:15, and at this time of day the bus schedules are pretty skewy with bigger gaps in time between buses (as opposed to running every 10-15 minutes or so like they do at rush hour), I got to the bus stop and realized it was probably going to be awhile and so, even though I was carrying a lot of crap, walked to the next stop thinking "hey, at least it's exercise." Finally get there and wait. And wait. And wait. And Oh DEAR LORD, WHERE IS THAT FUCKING BUS?!
Somewhere around 8:45 I see a bus. Not MY bus (the #7), but the #11 that also runs to South Boston. Thinking the #11 runs by or near my house, I figured I would just hop on that and walk the one block to my apartment rather than wait until God knows for the #7.
Less than a minute later as the bus is taking a sharp turn that it wasn't "supposed to", with a sinking feeling realize, "Oh shit,... this isn't the...ohhhh, I wanted the #9."
I am on THE WRONG BUS.
It's a great feeling to have, really. Apparently odd integers confuse me.
I get off the bus and walk to the stop that I know sees the #9 - a bus that will, in fact, drop me in front of my house...I think. I really can't be trusted at this point.
By now I am starving as it's past 9:00 p.m. But ooh, what's that smell? Is that The Teriyaki House?
I walk across the street and order some pork lo mein. Not a second after the lady hands me my change and as if on cue to emotionally hurt me, the #9 rolls by.
The Teriyaki House peeps have my name and tell me it'll be 15 minutes (which, seriously? for lo mein?). I wait. And wait. And... MOTHER OF GOD, WHERE THE HELL IS MY LO MEIN???
Patience is not my strong suit right now...but I am trying.
I will learn is was sitting on the counter. They never called me. It just sat there for what felt like an infinity (or what was possibly 20 minutes) before some girl noticed me loitering and asked, "Can I help you?". UH, yeah yah can. Can I have my damn lo mein, please? (or more accurately, "I ordered Lo Mein." "Jean?" "Yeah.")
Finally, with lo mein in hand, I get the #9 bus. SEETHING.
And I probably could have stayed in a pissy mood for the rest of my otherwise shot night had I not heard a 3 year-old little girl ask her mom, "Do you smell farts? I smell farts. Is someone farting?"
I believe that would be my lo mein.