Dork Factor: #42562

Just when you think you’re too cool for school, you find yourself scratching (yup, as if you were some kind of rickety-rockety DJ) to the Dave Matthews that is playing in the background.

Wiggedy, wiggedy, wack!

Wednesday Worries

It’s approximately 9:05 a.m., and I am wanting to go home and smoke a cigarette. “Heathen!” you shout, surprised at my new vice. I’m shrugging, nonchalantly. If I were stuck in the “Happy Days”, I’d tell you to sit on it. I’ve got have some kind of vice. Right, right?! And smoking is so easy. I mean, I could fire questions right in a row, rat a tat a tat a tat! Do you think I’m pretty? Do I look fat in this? What do you mean don’t I think blowjobs are fun? How come you wear your hair like that? Do you really think that looks good on you? When are you going to get your degree? Are you jealous? Don’t you get tired of being better than me? Do you really have to drink that much? Do you think she’s pretty?

There, there. See? Wouldn’t it be so much better if I put a cigarette in my mouth?

So I do.

It’s not a flattering habit, for sure. And since I go to such great lengths to hide it, probably something that I should just drop all together. But let me tell you. There is nothing satisfying about sitting outside with your legs up sucking on a piece of gum. Not one, damn, thing. Not even 1/2 a damn thing.

I’m a grumpy little smoker, pushing you away with my smoke. I suppose those would be both physical and imagined boundaries.

All the magazines talk about weight loss. If I buy those jeans, I could look like Kate Moss. Lily Allen sings that.

Do I need a vacation or what?

If you say what? Just keep it to yourself. I’ll love you anyway.