QUIT YER STOOPID QUESTIONS . . .

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Why does pee weakly trickle out at the speed of an old lady driving a 1976 Buick on a sunny Sunday afternoon when you go to the bathroom after holding it for a long time, but comes out at normal speed and with normal force when you just go because you want to go?

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Why do I have so many articles of clothing in my closet and drawers, but I never have anything to wear?

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Why do shoe salespeople go into the back room holding the shoe you want, and return with a different shoe, in a different color, in the completely wrong size? What is that?

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Why is it that you can be enjoying your lunch sandwich, then about 3/4 of the way through it, it just makes you want to gag and puke, and you just can't eat it anymore?

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Why do I have a bag/handbag fetish?

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Why can't men and women communicate accurately and calmly?

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Why do I develop bizarre addictions to silly television shows? Amazing Race being my new vice . . .

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Why are straight men fascinated with women's breasts?

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Why don't I take a spontaneous weekend trip to the Bahamas or to Puerto Rico instead of waiting for my friends to get their acts together?

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Why do Southerners speak with southern accents, Bostonians speak with northeastern accents, Californians say "dude" a lot, and Midwesterners open their vowels?

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Why does retail therapy help me feel better about everything?

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Why don't I photograph well from my right side?

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Why does a monstrous blemish always bloom prominently on my face a mere week before any kind of major social event? Right now, I have what looks like a small toffee chip on my right chin. Sigh.

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Why are Calvin, my Squirt, Snoopy and those Boynton animals so much cuter than any little boy, turtle, dog, or wild animal in real life?

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Why don't I go and do some work now . . .

Reading: The Dive From Clausen's Pier, by Ann Packer
Listening to: Fly, Dixie Chicks (Top songs: "Goodbye, Earl" and "Without You")