Mr. Bella’s blatant disregard for me is amazing. He literally has no idea I exist. Like…I feel like Mia in Princess Diaries when people sit on her because she’s virtually invisible. Except now, I just think his inability to notice my existence is hilarious. Instead of being upset that he isn’t falling in love with me, I’m going to find humour in the fact that he literally has no idea I’m on the train, let alone how amazing I am and how cute our babies would be. Because they would be frickin’ adorable. But that’s fine, Train Husband Man. I don’t need you.
Okay but call me.
Old People
Old people are wonderful. Really, they are. But when you’re the youngest in a group of 50 by a good, say, 30 years (and the person that is 30 years older relates to you because you’re both the “young ones”), you start to dread the day when people talk to you as though you’re a child and you feel like cattle as you’re being herded into the theatre to watch a play about a little British boy who would rather dance than box. Which, if I must say, is a bit of a kick in the teeth to the ladies in the audience that would rather box than dance. Dancing isn’t for everyone, ok?! Like…some people just aren’t good at it and like to express their feelings through punching rather than creative movement, which also leads people to believe that I can beat them up and even though that I don’t really want to give that impression, I kind of enjoy it. But anyway. There was one unbelievably good looking male ballerina (ballerino?) that was literally all muscle and whose lower region looked amazing in his tight white pants, and who I would definitely dance with if that dance happened to be the horizontal tango. And maybe if he wouldn’t wear those pants in everyday life because, truthfully, they’re pretty gay.
Where was I? Right. Old people.
So they all look the same. Like Asians. I momentarily misplaced my Grandma in the throng of the little Q-Tips and finding her was next to impossible (it’s okay, I did find her…okay, she found me). They’re all short with white hair and I swear they all wear the same clothes. They should have different hats on with identifying factors sticking from the tops or something. I’m just saying that it would help.
Classiness
I’m all class, ok? Like…maybe it doesn’t always come across because I swear and shop at Wal-Mart, but I am. It’s just…I live in a small town. We don’t have posh restaurants and stuff like that. So when I go out for drinks with work people and we go to a really nice place that they claim isn’t “really nice” but overlooks the city and everyone is wearing black and is really pretty and I have on shoes from Primark and my hair is all flat and the drinks are over $10, I’m pretty sure they can tell I don’t belong there. Not that my work friends care. They’re literally some of the best people ever (love you guys!). But the other patrons that are snobby because they spend all their time shopping in Yorkville and being all cranky because they think they’re king shit, they can probably tell that I’m faking it. I try, though. I sat on the super cool couch thing that is meant for casual relaxation, but I fell backwards on it because it was too damn soft and had to resort to sitting on a stool while trying to cross my legs, but ended up just sort of sticking out my top leg in a rather un-lady-like fashion. I also ordered a fancy drink, but I sucked it back in about 2 minutes (I also ate the pineapple garnish, which I’m thinking now isn’t something that’s done…). Eventually, I just ended up sitting with uncrossed legs and drinking Bud Light from a bottle. All class, baby.
Couples on Dates
I was not part of the couples that were on these dates, but then I don’t think that was a necessary disclaimer. Because, well, it’s me. Anyway, I went to a Thai restaurant to pick up my takeout order that I intended to enjoy on my couch as I drank wine alone (and was rather looking forward to it, actually), and as I entered the restaurant, every single person looked over to see who was walking in (which I know is a natural response, but come on people). I, as always, took a quick scan of the restaurant while praying that I didn’t know anyone there, and realized that every single god damn table was occupied by a couple on a date. And there I was, walking in with a Bulk Barn bag of chocolate going to pick up my single dinner. And all I could do was laugh. This is my life.
Love,
Bella
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