I think I might be a mutant.
Consider the evidence.
- I’m perfectly thrilled that we’ve never been to Disney. Land or World. In my book, the in-your-face commercialism, crowds, and saccharine would be pure torture. (Hint, hint, Donald Trump – in case you’re still looking for something that’s “a hell of a lot worse” than water boarding. Asshat.)
- A friend posted on FB yesterday that she was excited because she was about to start a 2-hour massage. Dear God in Heaven, TWO HOURS of a stranger all up in my personal space? I hyperventilate at the very thought.
- I have never worn leggings as pants. Or worn any pants that have words plastered across the butt. Somehow the idea of inviting others to look more closely at my ass simply doesn’t appeal.
- I don’t like wine. Or beer. Or any alcohol, much. Rarely a margarita or a Bailey’s on ice. It’s not a moral or ethical or even a health thing. Just don’t like it.
- I don’t feel the need to stand up and place my hand over my heart while soulfully singing along to “God Bless the U.S.A.” every time it’s played at a sporting event. I do feel the need to hurl when others engage in this practice under the smarmy and mistaken impression that they’re great patriots.
- I have a sneaking suspicion that Jesus doesn’t check Facebook to see whether I love him enough.
Here endeth the snark for today.