I turn 35 this year. I thought I’d have things at least kind of figured out at this point. But nope, I’m still as confused as ever:
- When I sleep on my right side, just where the hell am I supposed to put my right forearm?
- When I order coffee to-go in a paper cup, why do I still have to jam a paperclip or pen into that little pinhole to get the coffee to come out? Did plastic lid technology reach its zenith in the early ’90s?
- Why is it that I can renew a piece of plastic that legally entitles me to propel 1.5 short tons of metal and internal combustion down the interstate at 75 miles per hour without so much as verifying that I continue to own a pulse, but I have to present this very piece of plastic if I wish to obtain decongestants?
- See the first bullet, replacing “right” with “left.”
- Why is it so irritating when the toilet paper plies get uneven? To the point that I will relentlessly unfurl the better part of a roll until the two (or three!) are once again realigned?
- What is this kind of magic that allows me to sit in a chair at home, inform Amazon that I wish to procure at least $25.00 in goods, and then have these very items hand delivered to my door, all without paying a single penny for the genuine pleasure of not having to go outside and retrieve them myself?
- Why do so many airplane passengers request such unorthodox beverages as tomato juice and ginger ale? I’ve never seen anyone order tomato juice in a restaurant.
- Will my sense of eager anticipation that immediately precedes unlocking the door and seeing a hotel room for the first time ever diminish?
This is the kind of crap my brain considers more or less continuously.
