I know I have green eyes. I know I am left handed. I know that I have never put a Brussels sprout in my mouth, nor will I.
These are facts.
Somewhere between the facts and the total bullshit I tell myself, there is a murky area of things I believe to be true.
For example, I believe that I am not a total asshole, others often disagree. I believe that Brett Michaels is still hot (sort of), because if I didn’t believe that, then I would have to admit, that I am old as fuck too, and that my eyeliner, that looked just as pretty as his in 1987, only serves to accentuate the crinkly skin bordering my basset like eyeballs that other people (who laugh) refer to as laugh lines.
Also, I believe I am pretty fancy. There is really no basis for my opinion, other than, I decided a long time ago that I was. So, now I am. Fancy.
The thing about fancy, is that you can think that you are, until someone informs you, you’re not.
One day your blonde tresses are shiny and lustrous, your eyeliner is perfection, every horny chick in America, or, at least in Kansas wants to hump your leg, and the next thing you know, you are on a bus with a bad weave and presbyopia.
Or, in my case, one minute you have a killer do, a hot car and kick ass boots, and the next you are covered in orange paint wearing a stained Oz Fest t-shirt, sporting a hairstyle that looks for all the world like a guinea pig is molting on your skull.
Combine that unpleasant image, if you are able, with a male escort adorned in white socks and tire tread sandals, driving a 1982 Olds Delta 88, with no shocks and a second hand dresser tied on top with bungee cords.
It does not exactly scream fancy, now does it?
The nice ladies at the Sugar and Spice Resale Store certainly didn’t think so. They were almost polite when they directed me to the back of the parking lot, where the good souls of Granbury Texas were handing out free food boxes. Apparently, I am more homeless-ish than fancy.
“Why? Why Nice Ladies do you do this to me? I am here because I want to buy a desk. With money! I do not want your free canned Brussels sprouts. I will never eat a Brussels sprout! I am Fancy! I borrowed the car! The hair, well, you have a point about the hair, but still,
I AM FANCY DAMMIT!”
Sensing my distress, my escort, the dork in the sandals and socks, suggested that we go to lunch. After all, he had used a TV tray as a desk this long, another week or so, until I composed myself wouldn’t hurt.
“Lunch, are you kidding me? I need to go home and lie down.” I responded.
“But I’m starving” he whined.
“Fine then, let’s drive through McDonalds” I said.
"McDonalds? McDonalds is disgusting" he continued.
"Totally", I countered, "But they have fancy ketchup."
Out-
T
image:http://images.teamsugar.com/files/upl1/1/15259/16_2008/ketchupgourmet.jpg
These are facts.
Somewhere between the facts and the total bullshit I tell myself, there is a murky area of things I believe to be true.
For example, I believe that I am not a total asshole, others often disagree. I believe that Brett Michaels is still hot (sort of), because if I didn’t believe that, then I would have to admit, that I am old as fuck too, and that my eyeliner, that looked just as pretty as his in 1987, only serves to accentuate the crinkly skin bordering my basset like eyeballs that other people (who laugh) refer to as laugh lines.
Also, I believe I am pretty fancy. There is really no basis for my opinion, other than, I decided a long time ago that I was. So, now I am. Fancy.
The thing about fancy, is that you can think that you are, until someone informs you, you’re not.
One day your blonde tresses are shiny and lustrous, your eyeliner is perfection, every horny chick in America, or, at least in Kansas wants to hump your leg, and the next thing you know, you are on a bus with a bad weave and presbyopia.
Or, in my case, one minute you have a killer do, a hot car and kick ass boots, and the next you are covered in orange paint wearing a stained Oz Fest t-shirt, sporting a hairstyle that looks for all the world like a guinea pig is molting on your skull.
Combine that unpleasant image, if you are able, with a male escort adorned in white socks and tire tread sandals, driving a 1982 Olds Delta 88, with no shocks and a second hand dresser tied on top with bungee cords.
It does not exactly scream fancy, now does it?
The nice ladies at the Sugar and Spice Resale Store certainly didn’t think so. They were almost polite when they directed me to the back of the parking lot, where the good souls of Granbury Texas were handing out free food boxes. Apparently, I am more homeless-ish than fancy.
“Why? Why Nice Ladies do you do this to me? I am here because I want to buy a desk. With money! I do not want your free canned Brussels sprouts. I will never eat a Brussels sprout! I am Fancy! I borrowed the car! The hair, well, you have a point about the hair, but still,
I AM FANCY DAMMIT!”
Sensing my distress, my escort, the dork in the sandals and socks, suggested that we go to lunch. After all, he had used a TV tray as a desk this long, another week or so, until I composed myself wouldn’t hurt.
“Lunch, are you kidding me? I need to go home and lie down.” I responded.
“But I’m starving” he whined.
“Fine then, let’s drive through McDonalds” I said.
"McDonalds? McDonalds is disgusting" he continued.
"Totally", I countered, "But they have fancy ketchup."
Out-
T
image:http://images.teamsugar.com/files/upl1/1/15259/16_2008/ketchupgourmet.jpg
