In case you have a life, and missed the first 4 parts to this series, a short recap:
Half the folks in Blogland have a 100 Things list, in which they detail 100 miscellaneous facts about themselves, usually along the lines of "I collect ceramic elephants," and "I think Brad Pitt is dreamy." When I tried to create my own 100 Things list, all I could think of was, "I'm hungry for a cookie." However, thinking of 100 Things Wrong With Me was way easier; maybe the easiest thing I've ever done. I'm posting it in installments, because any list of anything gets insufferably boring after the first few items. Here's #41-50.
41. It irks me to no end when companies deliberately spell their company or product name wrong in some misguided attempt to be cute or catchy. Examples: Kountry Kitchen, Fantastik, Kwik Copy, Krispy Kreme. Oh, and those insipid Chick Fil-A ads where the spelling-challenged cows constantly obsess about "chikin." I want to shoot those retarded cows and stuff their carcasses, whole, down the throat of whoever came up with that dumb marketing campaign.
42. I basically refuse to touch raw meat. This makes cooking a challenge. Luckily I've found a solution--one which involves not cooking.
43. When people bring their kids to a public place and let them cry and scream, it makes me want to stab a pencil in my ear. I guess turning the violence upon myself is my way of protecting the children from my wrath. I know I should be more patient, because, news flash: Kids are noisy. But still, someone get me a pencil.
44. I have a terrible, terrible memory. Mostly that means I forget things entirely--but what I do remember, I can't ascribe the proper time period to. As in, I may remember sleeping with President Clinton, but can't recall if that happened post-Monica Lewinsky, or back when he was the Governor of Arkansas. For a lot of years, I kept diaries, but not the "Dear Diary, today I'm sad" kind, in which a person hashes out all his or her feelings. The purpose of these diaries was just to write down the interesting things that happened so that I wouldn't forget them in six months. Even now, when I read back through them, my most frequent reaction is "What? I did that?!"
45. I'm bad at remembering names and faces, but I attribute that more to my self-absorbed nature rather than to my terrible memory. I'm simply too consumed with myself to notice others. That's not to say I'm egotistical--on the contrary, what I'm usually consumed with is criticizing myself or critiquing whatever conversation I just had with someone so that I can berate myself for my perceived faux-pas. The phrase "I'm an idiot" gets thrown around a lot in my head.
46. Everywhere I go, I drive like I'm trying to outrun the cops. (Sometimes I am, but only when I have illegal guns or black market baby seals in the car.)
47. I have the world's tiniest bladder. There's some kind of crazy bladder math at work, so that if I drink 4 ounces of liquid, it turns into 103.4 ounces of pee, which must exit my body in no fewer than 67 separate bathroom trips. And if I happen to be nervous (which, luckily, is fairly rare), multiply that number by 12.
48. Any present that I gift-wrap ends up looking like I wrapped it 3 years ago and have been storing it in a wet laundry hamper ever since. I think gift bags are the single greatest invention since Spam.
49. I hate being cold. I moved out of Missouri specifically to avoid the bone-chilling winters, and I thought Texas would be an ideal climate. Turns out that was foolish thinking. It's so bloody hot in Texas that every building in the state blasts air-conditioning to a degree that actually rivals those cold Missouri winters I was trying to escape. Outdoors, it's like you took a wrong turn at Albuquerque and ended up in Hell. Indoors, it's like you're a frozen carcass in an oversized meat locker. So when I go somewhere, I dress for the hot outdoors, but I bring along a sweater, and sometimes socks, for when I get inside the building. I arrive at my destination drenched in sweat, but the sweat instantly crystallizes on my body the moment I enter the sub-zero building.
50. Public restrooms gross me out. I'm not exactly a germ freak, but public bathrooms just seem to me like breeding grounds for disease and filth. I don't want to touch any fixture in there, and I don't--I can make it in and out without touching one single surface with my hands. I flush the toilet with my left boob, turn on the water at the sink with my liver, dispense a paper towel with my spleen, and open the door to leave with my small intestine.