I have to wonder what the people at the Mexican place think when I order food for delivery. The restaurant is literally 50 feet from my house, and I generally answer the door in my pajamas. Should I become a serial killer, I’m pretty sure that they would be the people who buck the trend and tell the TV crew that they always knew I was up to something in there.
“The other day, she ordered tacos for delivery at 3 pm and then came to the door wearing her 8th grade softball t-shirt and fuzzy pants with cats on them.”
I mean, right? That’s a clear sign of a crazy person, right there.
Speaking of which, I was talking to Ma Smash today, as I do, and I mentioned that my hypochondria was spiraling out of control.
“I can’t decide whether I’m, like, totally riddled with tumors or whether my liver is going to fall out,” I told her.
“You are not totally riddled with tumors. Your liver is fine, despite all that is just. However: You are crazy in your headbone.”
“Yes. In fact, your only problem is that your ginormous brain pan is folding over on itself, trying to think up things to do to stay amused.”
Perhaps I could teach it to knit.