I really like this song, because I'm 12, and also because Justin Timberlake calls me regularly and begs me to love him, and also because I am not at all a delusional freak. My name is Lola. I am a showgirl.
My point is, what irks me is the guy in the background of this song who keeps saying all the obvious stuff in his kind of falsetto voice. "Take it to the chorus!" "Take it to the bridge!" Was this just some friend of Justin Timberlake's who needed a job?
I have decided I want someone to stand around, and in a high, nervous voice command me to do really obvious stuff. "Breathe so you live!" "Make coffee now!" "Blooooog!"
Go ahead, be gone with it.
Perhaps nervous, high-pitched person could have helped me yesterday when I humiliated my own self in front of Vilhelm Oyster, and I realize I have now brought up my coworker Vilhelm two days in a row, which is not going to help his rather sizable ego but this sad tale needs mentioning.
I borrowed 50 cents from Vilhlem, because he is the kind of responsible person who always has cash on him and my wallet always has old receipts from Burger King and movie ticket stubs. Yesterday afternoon I went to his desk to return his 50 cents, feeling very adult that I had actually remembered to pay him back. I probably owe him about $79 in quarters by now.
I held my palm out flat, with the change on it. "They say you should hold your hand flat for horses and Vilhelm," I said, loving my own self, as usual. I'm bringing self-love back. Except apparently I really had been.
"What's going on, there?" asked Vilhelm, gesturing toward my nethers.
You guys. My pants were completely undone. I mean, they weren't just unzipped. The little snap thingie was unflapped, too. It was like, HELLO, WORLD! Say, what day is it? I don't know, let's gander at June. She has her chonies out with the days of the week on them.
Fortunately I had on a longish shirt, so Vilhelm was not seeing London and France, but that was the only thing that was saving me.
You can imagine how Vilhlem let this drop.
"Hey! Shouldn't I be paying YOU?" he guffawed, taking my change.
Awhile later, he dashed past my cubicle on his way to do some work. He had just passed me when he backed up. "Oh, is there still a show?"
Who adores himself? Who is going to let my humiliation drop, ever, in the next 70 years, do you think?
What I want to know is, HOW DID MY PANTS COME COMPLETELY UNDONE WITHOUT MY KNOWLEDGE? Did I have a blackout? Did I go into the bathroom and get so distracted I forgot the fasten-your-pants part? Am I bringing sexy back? Whiskey tango foxtrot.
I guess that is all I have to tell you, except that Tall Boy asked to see the pictures of Norma and Vern, and in case you just got here, I have three photo albums of this couple I don't know, and the albums date from the '40s and '50s, and supposedly someone is making a documentary about me and other odd people like me who have the hobby of collecting pictures of people we don't know.
Here is the trailer for said documentary. I look insane. Enjoy my bra strap! When I stand up my pants are undone. Anyway, you have to hand it to Tall Boy, who by the way pointed out about 80 things in those photos that I'd never noticed before, which is saying something because I've stared at those pictures 93949394 times.
Tall Boy kind of rocks.
Okay, I have to go get dressed, and you know, FASTEN MY PANTS. Hey, since this is the last day of the week that we are working, does it count as jeans day? What if I get there and no one else has on jeans? Crap. Maybe I will go with cords, which are pretty casual yet not jeans. I don't know why I'm even bothering to wear pants at this point, now that everyone has seen my ovaries.
Take it to the chorus!
