Notes to Self

So here’s the thing: I had a really good idea for this column. It was funny and poignant. It had self-deprecating anecdotes, an epiphany and a relatable, bittersweet ending. It likely had a fart joke, too.

When I sat down to write this masterwork, I cracked open the laptop and…nothing. Nada. I could not remember how to open Microsoft Word, never mind my column idea.

Good thing I keep notes on my phone. Anytime I need to remember something, I pull out my phone, write a note and then get distracted by cat videos for 45 minutes.

Eventually, usually an hour or two later, I remember why I was looking at the phone in the first place: see reminders.

Problem is my notes make no sense. They seem to be random thought-vomit, generated by a malfunctioning chip in my head.

Here are actual notes on my phone. None have been altered:

“Three Stooges when other teams bumble ball.”

“Dead to me applegate.”

“Bas. Beckett. Ivy. Hazel.”

“Lol lol.”  No more on the page. That’s it.

“Farfan”

“The beast is vaping.”

At this point, I remind you that none of these are made up. All entries are verbatim notes on my phone. That said, I will continue:

“One of the haram carriers was in the bathroom. Where is the other pin? In my mouth.”

“This is such a deal for a freaking inverter. Storming furniture store sweaty couches until cough oup (sic) of the nutcrackers.”

“Death Tennis 2020.”

“When you are in pig poop, oh man. Buzzkill.”

I think I know what that last one is, and, strangely, it was from a conversation with a colleague in the utilities business.

Buzz-killing pig poop is hard to top, but my favorite phone note includes the lines “Earl the squirrel” and “Squirrel recipes.” I am guessing this was a column idea, as it was not followed by a shopping list.

I think most of these are column ideas, diligently documented so I would not forget. And I am sure they would be great columns if I had a random thought-vomit interpreter.

Here’s the other thing. My friends here at Ocala Style asked me to write about New Year’s resolutions. An understandable request this time of year.

Thing is, I do not have any resolutions. I should have, considering the weight I gained in 2020. I reveled in quarantine snacks so much my yellow safety vest from work―the one that was big and floppy when I started the job―is literally ripping at the seams. (Future column idea: pot-bellied Hulk.)

Thus, my resolution for 2021 is simple. I resolve to make more sense. I resolve to add context to my notes, to not mix shopping lists with work-related poop conversations.

Now comes the bittersweet epiphany, the positive part of this column that comes full circle: May the vaping beast of 2020 wallow in a haram bathroom with pig poop and sweaty squirrels. 2020 is dead to me. Applegate. Applegate. Lol. Bumble ball.

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