flying through clouds of uncertainty on wings of existential dread
This may require explanation for you non-Facebook friends, or just people who weren’t around for my pickle-related descent into madness.
So, first, this happened:
Facebook posts, because I’m on a PC and I’m not sure about screenshots:
“Dear tiny lady on the hip adductor machine, You’re awesome. You are clearly moving a ton of weight with the power of your inner thighs alone, and so you are welcome to makes screamy faces and fling your head back as much necessary. It’s just, we can all picture you having the sex now. Love, Me”
“P.S. – I have a jar of pickles I can’t open. If I bring it to the gym tomorrow, will you help? #gymthoughts”
“WHY WON’T YOU LET ME INSIDE YOU? #picklerage”
“Pickles, you are my nemesis now. #hangry”
“Seriously, that fucking jar of pickles is mocking me. Maybe that nice trainer would help. Would I have to pay her? #gymthoughts”
“Pickle jar, I have defeated you! I SHALL FEAST UPON YOUR DELICIOUS INNARDS! Victory is sweet! And sour!”
“The kitchen rests in silence now. The long war of the pickle jar is over, and if everything
weren’t covered in fucking flour from the 7 bajillion cookies’ worth of dough I made last
night, all would be well.”
Oh, and after I posted the terrifying-screaming-at-pickle-jars photo, I felt the need to improve it somewhat. I had thought about putting on Pictish eye makeup before I snapped the pic, but then I would have had to wash it off, so Photoshop.
But in Photoshop Touch on my iPad, so please don’t judge how crappy it looks. On the up side, I think I’ve found the perfect Match.com profile pic.
I missed the part where that was Pictish eye makeup and thought you were just really into ninja turtles….
It looks more like that, really. Stupid lazy failing to get out the eyeshadow jerk.