- "Addy." The word is address. IF you can't spell it, maybe you shouldn't be earning 6 figures at some fancy law firm. And if you can spell it, maybe you shouldn't pretend to be a 14-year-old cheerleader.
- The heat. I'm on record as anti-sun, but this goes above and beyond. Really it includes anything that makes me sweat. The only times I'm ok with sweating is when I'm running, or I'm naked. Or I'm in a room with a bunch of fat Russian men. It's a sauna, people. Must you go right to the sexiest, hairiest interpretation?
Humidity is a big part of this, as anyone trying to convince you to move to Arizona will tell you. In fact, I'm more against humidity than heat. But I refuse to give it the satisfaction of its own bulletpoint. Take that, water vapor!
- Puberty. You'd think I'd have moved on by now, and let bygones be bygones given that I'm old, and a parent, and old. But my voice still cracks on occasion (the occasion being when I use sentences), I still get zits, and I can't stop noticing the different and wonderful ways that girls' bodies are so very different from boys' bodies. Maybe this means there's still a growth spurt in my future. Everyone gets one, right? At least now, as opposed to high school, I have to shave.
- Shaving. I try to get every hair. I do. But I miss entire regions, small but distinct swaths of facial and neck landscape that sometimes makes me look like an escaped mental patient trying to pass as an office intern. And it's always the same areas, no matter how carefully I focus on them. Maybe I should resort to plucking.
- Haircuts. That's not true at all. I love taking haircuts. I'd get one every week if I could afford it, baldness be damned. Those first couple of days I feel sleeker, more aerodynamic. Badass too, like elite soldier Buster Bluth.
- Miley Cyrus. What's wrong with you? Is this some sort of sting to get every male aged 12-40 arrested on kiddie porn charges (oh my gosh, did I just assist in the investigation?)? Didn't you learn anything from that High School Musical chick? Put some clothes on! Billy Ray, stop hosting your crap-ass TV show and pay attention to your daughter, Lord knows no one else was. This is obviously a cry for help. Or the epic finale of "To Catch 150 Million Predators."
- Harper's Magazine has this thing on its last page called Findings. It's telling that you're not even allowed to read the link without paying, because this is one super elite magazine. Basically it's a list of amazing scientific discoveries and knowledge that were made and found in the past month, or something. So fine, you've got your new info on starfish memories (not lasting more than a day, if you care). But then, they slip this in at the end:
There is evidence of time before the Big Bang.
No footnotes, no citations, nothing. Turns out, if you overcharge for a magazine that only comes out once a month, you can just make up crazy stuff, and the rich people will believe it. And then they mention it offhandedly at cocktail parties. "Hmmm, this is quite the piquant bordeaux. Oh, did you hear about that 'time before the creation of the universe' datum? Yes, I apprised Bipsy of that on our catamaran off Nantucket on Sunday, she nearly bit into her mimosa glass. Huhuhuhuh!"
Harpers, there's only one institution that's allowed to offer science without evidence - the government.
Oooooooh, it looks like you've been out in the sun too long, Harpers, cause you just got Buuuurrrrrrrrnnnned! (Stupid SNL/NBC, pulling their Youtube clips. Seriously, it was a really funny clip. Really.)