“Cool fanny pack. You must be young and awesome” said no one EVER.
Hey, so guess what?
I’m going to be running a 5K!
Except it’s not REALLY a marathon. This is a race track that is just over three miles and has mud and obstacles and a giant music/beer fest after.
Oh, and the whole time you’re running, you’re being chased by zombies.
I just had an amazing thought: how awesome would it be if they did this at regular marathons, like Ironman or the Susan Korman boob cancer one BUT THEY DIDN’T TELL THE PARTICIPANTS.
Just picture it: Everyone’s running with their gal pals, sippin’ on some Crystal Light, wearing pink fanny packs and hats, and then SURPRISE! SUDDEN HOARD OF FUCKING ZOMBIES.
That shit would be fucking hilarious.
Speaking of fanny packs, an old lady walked out in front of my car the other day and I ALMOST HAD A HEART ATTACK (pardon my frequent use of CAPS. I don’t know how else to add dramatic effect to my words).
This almost stopped my heart not because she startled the shit out of me or because of her slight resemblance to a fanny pack wearing zombie (greyish skin, slow shuffle, far away stare that said “GIMME BRAINS”). Her silvered, disheveled, curly set of locks (ok, more like a frantic looking rat’s nest) reminded me that I found a few grey hairs the other day*.
Yeah, how ’bout that shit. I AM NOT EVEN THIRTY YEARS OLD.
Rumor has it, everything goes to shit at this point. Pretty soon, I’ll be at WalMart buying an econo-sized bag of fancy feast for my thirteen cats, and picking up a fanny pack, thinking, “OH MY! This fanny pack is PERFECT to hold my AARP card and my coupons, and it matches my Birkenstocks! Isn’t this lovely, Boyfriend?” and the whole time I will have been talking to a box of pancake mix or a coat wrack because HE’S NOT THERE. Then I put on my new item, leave the store, walk across the street, and SCARE THE SHIT out of some poor twenty-eight year old in a green Saturn and force that bitch to face her inevitable mortality.
I have way too much I want to do before the Life’s cruel, homely, stinky step-sister “Death” shows up on my door step with a fanny pack and a box of Depends.
*Turns out, it wasn’t actually a grey hair. I had gotten some foundation in it and it made a streak when I used my brush. BUT IT WAS STILL TRAUMATIC AND MADE ME QUESTION MY LIFE’S CHOICES.
I think it’s time to create an organized list of things I want to do/make/accomplish before I’m
a zombie old.
First thing that needs to be on the list:
1. Become incredibly fucking rich
This has nothing to do with living in a mansion or owning a boat. Fuck boats. I just want to know what it’s like to have rich people problems and to cross “money” off of my list of things to stress about.
2. Run a zombie infested 5k
I just put this on the list so I can cross it off when the time comes. Gives off the illusion that I’m productive.
3. Get plastic surgery
Yes its sad that vanity is so important and our perceptions are skewed and blah blah blah. If you come at me with some “you should love and accept yourself the way you are” nonsense, then I will have to ( lovingly) retort with a “fuck you”. My children have destroyed my boobs and it’s depressing. I WANT GIANT, PRETTY BREASTS THAT ARE SIGNIFICANTLY BETTER THAN THE ONES I AM STUCK WITH.
Seriously. I want boobs that are so impressive, they would stop traffic. That shit could come in handy.Think about it: what if, one day, I come across some horrible catastrophe that would require people to stop driving, and no one is there to get a handle on things? Hardly anyone would respond to hand signals. But most respond to boobs.
This could save lives, people.
4. Write a bucket list.
5. Learn to speak German
I have no reason for this except for the fact that I LOVE the language and want to sound terrifying when I yell at my kids.
The End. For now.
(Meaning this list will be updated for reals at some point. Suggestions welcome. Oh, and what would YOU like to accomplish before you nod off forever?)