Now, to be clear, I think T and I are absolutely the stuff of legends – and legends, obviously, are inimitable bamfs (no one scarfs down corn dogs quite like us, and Sonny and Cher don’t even come remotely close to our singing duo chemistry [though, admittedly, most of the time we’re singing gloriously off-key to a song we’ve made up ourselves about how we’re eating corn dogs]). But every now and then – like whenever T and I encounter a mustachioed douche lord under the quixotic delusion that he’s a writer (and who believes that all the calling really entails is modelling himself after David Foster Wallace and leaning against things) and share knowing glances in which we contemplate the merits of a myriad of violent ways to crush the fucker back to his sad, sordid, and laughably hopeless reality – I can’t help but compare us to another pair of legendary boos: Daria and Jane.
1. We generally don’t like humans.
After years of being looked at funny for shouting, “FUCKIN ROHIRRIM!!” while barreling out the school doors, receiving pathetically vacant looks in response to clever and appropriately timed puns or pop culture references, and having people assume we’re toting frivolous magazines in our purses instead of magnificent, literary, canonical fuckin tomes, T and I have learned that the best way to safeguard ourselves from disappointment – and safeguard the world from our blind rage – is to assume that everyone we meet is part of the lowest common denominator of the human race. The group who actually asks if Anne Frank has written anything else. The group who thinks Tolkien wrote a new book called Beowulf. The group who sees a clearly titled youtube video of Jimi Hendrix performing the Star Spangled Banner at Woodstock and thinks they’re watching Bob Marley. That group.
Every now and then Jayne and I text each other with some kind of terrible, self-diagnosed condition. It’s always out of the blue like, “Someone sneezed near me and I’m sure I now have the Avian flu,” or “I know I caught my coworker’s stupidity,” or “I think I’m going bald.”
We know it’s irrational when the other person is the one with the problem, but when we have a cut on our hand that isn’t doing what it’s supposed to, it’s ABSOLUTELY DEFINITELY SEPSIS.
The first step is to try to talk the other one down from the WebMD-induced hypochondria ledge. Which can backfire.
Like that time I cut my hand, slapped a band-aid on it, and called it a day–only to discover two days later that it was doing the opposite of healing. Continue reading
As boo-mates, T and I share a love of an infinite number of things. We love songs in which men wail mournfully about losing their one true love; we love getting four orders of imperial rolls to take home and share from our favorite Vietnamese restaurant even though leaving them somewhere in the backseat of her car for even a few minutes makes the whole vehicle smell like fart; we love when our enemies falter gloriously and helplessly before us, as if they fell apart on their own specifically because they knew they should. Mostly though, T and I share a boundless, limitless love for meatloaf (the food, not the guy….though, we’re fond of him too, don’t get us wrong).
It is the kind of love that has us seeking it in pretty much every restaurant we eat in. It is the kind of love that has caused T to stalk it to no end at one particular hofbrau (it’s so fucking amazing and so popular there that they consistently run out of it pretty much every time she’s there [which, by the way, is something that’s kind of baffling to me; HOW DO YOU RUN OUT OF MEAT?]). It’s also the kind of love that prompted her to text me, “GUESS WHO’S GETTING MEATLOAF TOMORROW?!” one random afternoon a few weeks ago and commit one of the most beautiful acts of boo-ship in the history of our friendship: the Meatloaf Delivery
Or, as she later proclaimed, “DING-DONG, IT’S MEATLOAF!” Continue reading