Since you foolishly didn't ban me here is today's blog post:
I used to visit my grandmother at the nursing home. I would take her out to lunch in my Mustang. She really liked the way it sounds, so being the good grandchild that I was, I would set the exhaust on track mode.
Ford engineers designed the Mustang exhaust specifically for my grandmother's hearing loss, giving me the perfect tool to ensure she heard it. In honor of her memory—and definitely not because I sometimes like to disturb the peace—I still drive around in Track mode so she can hear it wherever she is. I would never use that exhaust to express my frustration at people in traffic. That is just me letting her know I am thinking about her.
So today I have been thinking about her, especially after my pasta voyage last night.
To cater to my special version of crazy—which includes agoraphobia and a few other mental health issues—I chose to leave for this trip at 7:30 PM. This incredible stroke of genius meant I got to drive through a thunderstorm so bad I had to slow down on the highway to 40 mph just to see the road.
Also, in a perfect example of automotive-neglect, I actually bought new wiper blades for my Mustang recently to replace the current ones, which are six years old. But I never installed them. Proving my amazing procrastination abilities, I placed them against the wall in my apartment next to the wiper blades for my Jeep where they will do the most good.
Long story short, I finally got home at 9:15 PM. Which means I had lasagna at 9:15 at night... I will just let that weigh on you, since it is weighing on me today.
My pasta-modified brain is watching progress bars crawl across the screen, an agonizingly slow process that instantly brings back memories of picking my grandmother up at the nursing home. If you watched her or walked with her, she would barely move. The progress bars are like watching a 90-year-old walk down the hallway at a microscopic pace. But if I wanted to talk to the nursing station about something without her, she would magically teleport next to me. It was like she was personal friends with Scotty and he was standing by to beam her down just to prevent whatever conversation I wanted to have with the nurses.
So my blog has been paid for by my employer today. You see, when you have to watch progress bars for a living, you have a lot of time to think and apparently write.
So you can file all complaints to them. It's their fault this blog exists, and it's your fault you choose to read it. I know I warn you at least three times a week and yet here you are, reading it again. Did you shove the keys into the outlet one too many times after being warned not to do it by those larger humans that pretend to be mature parents?
Either way, you can see how I have time to write ridiculous jokes for you during the week. On the weekends I seem to disappear. Now, we could blame that on my preference for social isolation, or we can blame my employer for not paying me on the weekends.
Useless recap, yep still at the bottom where it serves no purpose:- Corporate-sponsored writing dopamine hit
- Track exhaust specifically for elderly hearing loss
- Automotive neglect involving six-year-old wiper blades
- Grandmother possessed stealth-teleportation technology
- My readers likely have electrocuted themselves as children, repeatedly
Disclaimer: Star Trek and the character Scotty are the property of Paramount. Please don't sue me, I just made a joke. I know you are excited to collect my frozen taco money, but I need it. You will get the last laugh anyway when the chemically treated burritos finally kill me.
