Nutcase

I eat a lot of peanuts at work, which is admittedly unremarkable, except that I am messy. Not the shells—I'm mindful of those because our cleaning staff works hard enough as it is.

No, not the shells, but those little reddish paper peanut jackets are what gets me in trouble. I guess they're called skins if we're being technical. Are we being technical? I don't really like that. But, okay, the skins get everywhere—on my keyboard, on my chair, on the floor and, of course, on me, which means I track them everywhere I go. Our nice cleaning staff probably has to clean up my peanut paper skins from the restroom. I feel bad about that.

In any case, Megan Jane and I determined a long time ago that our favorite peanuts were the shrively, burnt ones that taste just a little bit like dirt. There's something very appealing about the earthiness. It makes me feel connected to the universe.

Okay, this has gotten out of hand and kind of new age-y. I simply wanted to write that sometimes it's not the "thing" (i.e. the peanut) that causes all of the trouble; it's a small part of the "thing" (i.e. the peanut paper skins).

Same holds true for my life. It's not the overall "me" that brings me trouble. It's that small part of "me" that insists I open up my big, fat mouth until every last fleeting thought has come out ALL OF THE DAMN TIME. I think I may have said too much to the guy that I said I wasn't going to talk about.

I always do that. I can't ever leave it at, "We'll just take things as they come." I have to add on, "And by come, I mean it would be awesome if we slept together sometimes whilst you're working out stuff on your end because I am one horny devil, yessiree."

Le sigh.

"No couth, Valerie Joyce," my Mom used to say.

"Damnit, Val," is what I am saying.

The boy I am not talking about hasn't said anything yet.

In the Comments section, tell me your favorite snack. I need to get my mind off of my verbal faux pas.