Well, I certainly couldn't tweet it because 140 characters even times 400 wouldn't take care of everything that I'm afraid of.
Brooke Shields: I have recurring nightmares in which she's chewing on my shoulder. CHEWING, not nibbling. And I can feel her eyelashes.
Fork in the neck: Just what happened to that frog in Grade 7 in the sadistic science teacher's insane classroom of horrors. I have to sit with my back to the wall wherever I go and airplanes are a constant upset. The fact that its spleen juice shot into my eye upon puncture, necessitating a trip to the emergency eye wash station on the very first day I ever in my life wore mascara? I think that was karma announcing itself. What if it is not yet done with me??
Bug under pillow: All pillows, everywhere, even hospitals. Even when stoned on morphine because of a broken kneecap, I squirmed up and around, upsetting the bedpan, to make sure that there were no bugs under the pillow. In Alberta. In the winter.
Pee dye: When you get to be of a certain age, continence is no longer a guarantee. I don't think I'm there yet, but it's coming. I would never EVER on purpose pee in anyone's pool, but what if a little happened and I was trailed by tell-tale green dye, letting everyone know I might be the sort of person who might just pee in someone else's pool. The smell of chlorine now fills me with a sense of criminality sort of like crossing borders with nothing to declare does.
Banana shortage: WHAT WOULD I DO.
Snake in midnight toilet: Obviously.
My dog knows when I'm lying: And is judging me.
|"Tell me another one, sugar."|
The chair will collapse: In the restaurant and everyone will laff and I will have guacamole in my hair. Only Mexican restaurants affect me in this way.
My fingernails are just waiting to shatter, right up to the elbow: I believe this requires no further comment.
I will run someone over without realizing it and then everyone will think that not only am I a killer, but I am a heartless killer: So let me just try to clear that up right now. If I run you over, I'm really sorry about that and I really truly didn't do it on purpose. It's probably just that Leonard Cohen came on the radio and I had to make an emergency swiping gesture or put my fingers in my ears.
There you have it. And that's just what I could come up with in the last 5 minutes. We should totally grab a drink and talk more about me (or, I guess, you) one of these days. But not in a Mexican restaurant. Gracias.