When Ned and I weren't letting love lift us up where we belong this weekend, we were playing with an app. I know. We've turned into those people. We might as well get a leather sectional.
It's called Karen, and she's a life coach, and she's, you know, like a live person. Well, not really live, but she's real and you answer questions and she responds accordingly. Ned read about it in one of the many pretentious things he reads such as The New Yorker, or maybe he heard it on Nose in the Air on NPR. I forget.
"Oh, it's time for me to talk to my app," he kept saying, and some British woman would chat with him and I'd get annoyed, wishing that app would get off Ned for god's sake. The app talks to you for awhile, and you answer a few questions about how you feel about life and so on, but then she says, "Come back later to finish this talk." I have no idea why. Then your phone will tell you you can open the app again at, say, 11:00 the next day.
I couldn't STAND it after awhile and got the damn thing on my own phone. Then I figured out I could go into my settings and tell my phone it was the next day at 11:00 so I could keep playing. I'm sure the fact that I cheated the system while Ned played along dutifully at the times he was assigned means something about us.
Anyway, it's been riveting. Let me know if you get it. I am not being paid for this. WHY AM I NEVER PAID FOR THIS?
Oh, and we also found a sex fantasies app. It's called UnderCovers, and you know what I'm tired of? You know what I'm NOT having a sex fantasy about? Is this new trend with all Internet-related objects to be called NounVerb. Or AdjectiveVerb. What I'm saying is, I'm sick of two words squished together and capitalized. StopIt.
Anyway, you sit there alone and tell it which fantasies work for you. And they aren't just fantasies, either, they're acts. Like, in case you wondered if I'm super into the idea of someone peeing on me, I am not. So I Xd off that one. NoPee.
Then, when I was done, I send a message to Ned, telling him to use this code and answer them all himself. What I get, then, are only the answers he likes and I like, none of the ones we both don't. BarryGibbFantasies.
"Did you say you wanted a hot one-night stand with a stranger?" I asked, perusing our matches. The annoying part is, unless you pay $2.99, you only get to see one of your matches a day. HighwayRobbery.
"Oh, nooooo," said stupid fucking Ned. "Of COURSE not."
I hate Ned.
I totally said yes to that one, too, by the way. But I wouldn't really do it because disease. Plus, have you ever slept with a stranger or relative stranger and had a good time? I'm a girl and have to be comfortable with the person first. Although once there was this bike messenger. BikeMessenger.
I was a receptionist at an accounting firm, (I totally sound like the Penthouse Forum right now) and you can imagine how I fit in. In Seattle, they had these bike messengers who'd ride around all day delivering papers and so on from office to office. I wonder if they're all out of a job now that there's email? That's sad, because I was 27 and looking at bike messengers all day and each and every one of them was hot, like soccer players or firemen.
Anyway, one time this guy came in to deliver something, and I can't even remember what he looked like anymore, although cute, I assure you cute. And I was SO ATTRACTED TO HIM I couldn't even function. I was leaving for lunch, so we rode the elevator down together, and it was all I could do not to attack him on the 34-floor ride down. HotRideDown.
I was determined to ask him out next time he delivered something, and he never came back. I wonder if he's balding and drunk and middle-aged now. He's probably one of those guys who move to Boulder and never grow up. He probably wakes and bakes.
So that's been my weekend, playing with apps. Ned got a NewComputer and had to put it all together, which did not at all involve the swears. Eventually, his nice brother came over and helped him. Ned's brother is a saint. Once we got into a discussion over who was the better brother, and I was all, Look. I'm dating you, but even I think your brother is the better brother.
Also, I was gonna tell you today about my coworker's ridiculously funny Twitter page, and this whole post has been computer-centric, hasn't it? ComputerCentric. He mentioned it to me on one of our group walks at work, and I went back and perused it and did one of those laugh-so-hard-you-look-like-an-idiot things. Here are some of his tweets. I've become the sort of person who says, "tweets." That leather sectional should have liftable arms to store my wine coolers while I watch HGTV.
What I do on LinkedIn: sign in, accept invitation, scroll "people you may know," think "yes, I do know many of these people," sign out.
To get his eyes looking like they do, Benicio del Toro sleeps in a mask made of fire ants.
Check out this tersely worded letter: I
Did you know if you catch someone pronouncing La Croix "la kroy" instead of "la kwa" you can legally run them over in your Mercedes?
That last one was my fault. Austin, my {pretentious} coworker, brought a whole case of that water everyone and their dog's vagina is drinking, and Dear Austin: To tell you the truth, we were standing at the Anyone Can Take It Table when that case of La Croyyyyyuxxx water was in front of me, and I didn't know it was yours. So when I so boldly reached in and took one, I had no idea it was your personal stash.
Love, June La Crwaaa.
I don't even feel bad, though, because have you guys tried this stuff? I expected to hate it, because rebel who'd never buy a leather couch or get a french pedicure, and OH MY GOD I bought a case this weekend. It's calorie free and migraine-causing free and it's StupidlyDelicious.
Anyway, my coworker's Twitter is funny. Is what I was trying to say.
God, this whole post was like Goop.
