Mine

Fact:  I am an only child
Another fact:  This is a fact that most people are flabbergasted by.
Let me demonstrate-
Me:  "I am an only child."
Not me:  "You're kidding?  I never would've guessed."
The above conversation is a true story.  Typically when people come to light of the fact that I am a lone child, they are stunned.  Amazed.  Bamboozeled.  When people are surprised by this piece of information, I usually have a follow-up statement and/or question of:  "It's because I'm so amazing, isn't it?  You would've guessed by my humble demeanor that I come from a Duggar household.  You assumed that I was at least child number three, because I don't seem bratty.  Or self-entitled.  Or needy, like a middle child."  (Sorry you middle children, but Marsha, Marsha, Marsha.)  I am a rare breed.  Both because I am an only child, and I am all of the wonderful things that I have listed previously.  Kind of.... You see, I am a giver of my time, my hugs, my wit and charm.  But there is one aspect of my singleness that does demonstrate that I am, indeed, a lone spawn.  I hate sharing.  Hate. It.  And I completely blame my mother. :)  Mom Dukes never really encouraged the whole "sharing" thing.  She always figured that since I was an only child, I should be able to reap some of the rewards.  I never had a brother or sister to rip toys from their hands, or have to fight over who gets what.  It was always mine.  I can vividly remember Christmases at my house, and I would hold my breath and have a mini melt-down over the fact that someone was touching my new Barbie.  I would pile my loot and put all of the extra-special things in the back of the tree, where no one could get their grubby little paws on them.  Even though I would never really say anything to anyone, I would be watching them like a hawk, and thinking to myself, "I swear to the Heavens that if anyone, anyoneeeeeee, pushes that pop-o-matic bubble too hard on my new game of Trouble, I will pop them."  I'm sure it must've been pretty entertaining (or irritating) for my family to watch a neurotic six year old lose her shiz over the fact that someone was manhandling something that wasn't theirs.  I wish I could say that I have outgrown this tendency of selfishness, but alas, I haven't.  I still have a difficult time sharing any of my goods.  Now don't get me wrong, I do share, but on the inside I am sweating bullets and having a total conniption fit.  The thoughts of, "If you break it/ruin it/mess it up, I will squish you," comes to mind.  There is a pot 'o gold at the end of this rainbow, though.  I find the older you get, the less you actually have to share.  The only time that I am reminded of my embedded selfishness is when Lenny and I get Fat Kid Food-aka take out-and he plunges his hand into the bag and starts grabbing random fries.  That are probably from my fry container.  You would have thought that the man was about to steal a kidney without permission.  I seethe with irritation, all the while trying to seem nonchalant, but manage to say through clenched teeth, "You better keep those lady fingers out of my fry box."  Okay, maybe I'm not so nonchalant about it, and maybe I've not only effectively demonstrated that I don't like to share, but I can also behave like a total fat a**.
In conclusion, I think it's fair to say that I am the Captain of the 'S.S. It's Mine-ow', and really have no qualms about it.  Share a hug?  Sure.  Share my sticks of delicious Idaho goodness? Get your own. :)

I don't even know...

My thoughts have been so disjointed lately that there is a whole random cluster taking place in my brain, making it nearly impossible to get any of the "funnies" into competent, coherent sentences.  So, to be a little less of a slacker, I have decided to jot down the swill that has been churning over in my thought wrinkles:
*My irrational fear of garage zombies (I will go into more detail about this one at a later time, but it pretty much coincides with the scary death man hobgoblin that lives under my bed, that will grab me by my ankles and pull me down into Torture Land-where there are spiders the size of Cadillacs, and 'Keeping Up With The Kardashians' is playing on a constant loop-if I don't jump into my bed fast enough at night.)
*How I feel that skinny jeans and fedoras should be illegal (and anyone who wears them together should be shipped off to Hipster Island, where they can watch Downton Abbey on a continuous reel, and have contests like, 'Who Has The Tightest Pants', and, 'Watch How I Can Turn This Palm Frond Into A Stylish Scarf', together.)
*The fact that I have owned too many turtlenecks in my lifetime, and have used the word 'wanderlust' (Out loud.  To a person that could hear me), to ever be considered cool.
*How I want to own this shirt, because I find it ironic. (*The shirt is described as a "zombie wound", but I took it to mean something totally different before I read the description.  I mean, seriously.  How many times have you told a person, "I'm fine," when clearly you aren't, but it's just too exhausting to explain otherwise.)

*How I want to adopt a slow loris, because this critter is one outburst of, "Scratch my wingies!  With both hands!  In circles!" from being the fur version of me, demanding to be tickled and/or scratched.

*And finally, how I feel awkward and uncomfortable listening to Justin Beaver "rap" about being someones boyfriend.  Oh, the Beave...the Beave...
So hopefully on a day when my thoughts aren't all squishy and mushed together, I will write a cohesive piece on why there is nothing better, or more hilarious, than a deep-V neck t-shirt.  :)