Maybe I have elevator rage, but I think it's righteous

Thought of the day: I have a great deal of disdain for people who press both the up and down button when waiting for the elevator to make it come faster. I know that there are rumors that doing that is the secret code that will cause the elevator to spew out any inhabitants and break the laws of physics to come to your beck and call, but most studies indicate that this belief is false. Mainly it will just make me have to stop on your floor when I'm in a hurry to get home so that we can have an awkward conversation about how the elevator is going up 10 floors and you only want to go down 2 so maybe you should wait for the other one. Please, next time you're waiting for an elevator, just press one button indicating the direction that you actually want to go. If it helps, imagine that the other button is actually a bomb trigger attached to some sort of something you would rather have not exploded. It will save us both time. Actually, it might only save me time, but that will save you my silent curses that probably don't do anything, but if they do, you're going to wake up hairless, so best not to risk it.

Sleep is totally underrated...

Today I am tired. I woke up to discover that I have officially run out of clean clothes to wear and had to work incredibly hard to put some semblance of an outfit together. By the point that happened, I had run out of time to dry my hair and was happy when I left my apartment to discover it was raining, because, that way, people could think that I was caught in rain, when, in reality, I'm just lazy and bad at time management.

So, obviously, number one on my list of things to do when I came home was laundry, which I did while watching "Funny Face" with my friend Byla Rong. I should note that our aim had been to watch a romantic movie, and believed that we couldn't fail with Audrey Hepburn. Unfortunately, I'd forgotten about the 30 year age difference between Audrey Hepburn and Fred Astaire, which really didn't create the illusion we were hoping for. Yes, I know he has rhythm, but it's just not enough to make it not creepy. Also, it's never a good sign when the male lead's looks are improved by a false beard. Wardrobe's decision to dress him in a number of Mr Rogers style sweaters also really didn't help matters much.

Anyways, the reason I mention my laundry is to illustrate why this post might not be up to the standards you've come to expect, because my brain seems to have temporarily left me, hopefully not for Fred Astaire, because, as mentioned earlier, he's old (and, umm, dead...is it insulting to call deceased people old, or is that particular insult nullified by death? It's so hard to keep track of all the rules around that stuff...). So, I took the elevator down to get my laundry out of the dryer, and when I got down I realized that I'd forgotten my laundry basket. I live on the 14th floor of an overly superstitious building, so the 13 floor trip is not insignificant, but I trekked back up to retrieve my basket. Then I went back down to get my laundry and realized as I left the elevator that I had forgotten my basket again. So, I traveled the 13 floors up and down again. In total, it took 6 elevator trips to get one basket of laundry, and the entire time, my feet were dressed like this:

The moral of this story is my brain is fried and I shouldn't be allowed to dress myself. But, as I've mentioned frequently lately, my goal is to write every day, come rain or come shine. And, now that I know my brother Shamus is watching my every move, just waiting for me to slip up, I'm working even harder to make sure that there is something, anything, posted each day, because he is good at catching me in lies.

When we were kids, Shamus liked to make brownies, and I liked to eat brownies. It would have been a match made in heaven if he didn't also like to eat brownies, creating a competition for resources that, technically, he was entitled to win. I did not care for this, but, since he was bigger and stronger, I had no method to convince him that his brownies should actually be my brownies. Luckily, what I lacked in brawn I made up for in craftiness. Oh, and also, sneakiness: I can tip-toe like nobody's business. So, at night, when no one was around, I would sneak into the kitchen and steal delicious brownies. But, Shamus has a photographic memory, so, obviously, I couldn't just take a brownie without him noticing it was missing. I was good at geometric reasoning though, so instead of cutting a square brownie, which would be easily missed, I would carefully cut a strip of brownie off the end. That way, it would add up to the same amount of brownie, but its absence would be imperceptible to the human eye.



This system went on for months, and as I got cockier, I stopped worrying about how much brownie I took, because my strip system was so perfect that he could never discover me. Then, one day, I went to the kitchen for a scrumptious brownie treat, and just as I was cutting it, Shamus jumped out from behind the kitchen counter and screamed "I knew it!"

To help you to fully understand the amount of terror I felt in that moment, I'm going to completely lie about the rest of the story...

The shock of him jumping out caused my hand to shake so violently that I accidentally cut off my pinky finger. There was blood everywhere. It was horrible. Then Shamus said "You deserve this. How dare you steal my delicious chocolate treats?" and chased me out of the house with a broomstick. As I bled into the gutter, I thought "Never again will I let Shamus catch me off guard." And that is the reason that a post such as this is able to exist.