First and foremost, the title of this post ends in a preposition. I know this would make my really large English professor simultaneously cringe and defecate on herself, but I don’t really give a horse’s left testicle. I guess I should have entitled this, “I Worry About Stuff”, but I’m not changing it. Nope.

Sometimes throwing a preposition at the end of a sentence makes me feel rebellious. I like rebellious. I like that rebellious Matt Dillon in The Outsiders. I bet he said prepositions at the wrong time.

“Yo, Ponyboy, you coming with?”

Rebellious. Rawr.

However, I can’t stand, “Where are my shoes at?” If you ask me this, I will tell you “They are probably between the A and the T on Preposition Street, you dumb son of a bitch.”

Nice comeback, right? No? Too harsh?

Anyway, I am always worrying about, well, me.

Yeah, yeah, you already know I worry about the major stuff like Gangrene, but I am talking about asinine things.

I worry a lot about my eyebrows. Are they too shaggy, too dark? Do I resemble this guy?

I never thought about my eyebrows, your eyebrows, anybody’s eyebrows, until a girl that I knew shaved off her eyebrows in some kind of rebellious attempt to make her parents let her have wild sex and do drugs. Or something.

I mean, I didn’t know her personally, but when I heard “Hey, that so and so shaved off her eyebrows!” I got all worried and stuff. I was worried about her, her mental state, her reasons for shaving her eyebrows. I didn’t remember her as having big wooly centipedes over her retinas, so why did she do this?

When I saw her a few weeks later at McDonald’s, I laughed in her face. Really, I did. I could not stand there, amongst the stench of all white meat chicken nuggets, and ask how her mother had been doing when she was staring back at me with no eyebrows. She looked like a penis.

So, from that point forward, I began worrying about my eyebrows, your eyebrows, anybody’s eyebrows. I stare at people’s eyebrows, knowing they would look like a complete dick if they didn’t have them. Literally, a dick.

Thanks, crazy eyebrow shaving girl, for shaving your eyebrows and giving me a complex about eyebrows. I used eyebrows a lot in that sentence.

Why do we have hair there anyway?

Besides worrying about my eyebrows, I worry about my breath. A lot. I know it stinks. I just know it does!

When I was a kid, my best friend always told me if my breath stank.

Me: Did you watch Full House last night?
BFF: Your breath stinks.

Me: Do you want to come over after school?
BFF: Your breath stinks.

Me: Does my breath stink?
BFF: Your breath stinks.

Surely to God my breath didn’t stink every freaking time we had a conversation over the course of 14 years, right? I developed a complex. I started asking everyone, my family, my friends, strangers in the 25 items or less line at WalMart, “Hey, does my breath stink?”

The weird thing is that 97.773 percent of the time, I was answered with “No, quit asking me that.” My great grandmother would not lie to me about my breath stinking. Gran Gran wouldn’t like about anything!

I’m starting to wonder if my ex best friend’s upper lip stank instead. Yeah, that was it. Thanks for that breath stinking complex when it was your gross ass upper lip the whole time. I hope I run into her again someday.

ExBFF: Oh my gosh! It is so good to see you! Are you married? Do you have children? How have you been? Squeeeeeee!
Me: Your upper lip stinks. Bitch.

I also worry a lot about underarm odor. I sniff my pits in the privacy of my own home. I also do this in the public of dance floors. Oh, you think that’s a rad dance move where I throw my arms up to Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar on Me”? No, I totally just sniffed my armpits.

I am happy to report that my armpits are always fresh as a daisy.

I saw an episode of “House” and the patient was deathly ill. Twenty three seconds before the show ended, Dr. H spread the patient’s butt cheeks and removed a tick carrying Lyme Disease.

Awesome. One more thing to worry about. I don’t think that’s where Brad Paisley is talking about when he says, “I want to check you for ticks.”

I worry about my hair. If its humid out, I look like I’ve been on the receiving end of electroshock therapy. If it is cold out, I look like I haven’t been on the receiving end of electroshock therapy. 

I worry about my voice. It’s southern, it’s loud, it annoys the hell out of me when I watch home videos. Do I really sound like that? Did I really need to yell out “Aunt Ida, get the hell out of the video shot!” so loudly? Well, yeah, cause Aunt Ida couldn’t hear Kareem Abdul Jabaar fart in a broom closet.

Of course, I worry about my weight. Right now I am below the average weight for my 5’11 amazon woman tallness, but I feel fat. I should probably go throw up.

I do not have bulimia. I shouldn’t have said that throwing up thing. I don’t puke after I eat. I only puke after I drink liquor or eat mass amounts of Taco Bell.

Let me throw in one more thing-non body related-that I worry about. I mean, that worries me. There goes that ending a sentence in a prepositon thing again. I don’t mind making my English professor simultaneously cringe and defecate, but I don’t want to kill the lady.

When I was a kid, I worried that my stuffed animals would be lonely while I was at school. Sometimes I creep upstairs to my daughters room and make sure Snowball and Heart Bear are within talking distance in her closet. Psycho, right?

And really, that girl with no eyebrows looked like a penis. A dad gum penis.

I hate, did you hear me, hate taking photos. Here is the absurdness that runs through my brain before taking a picture.

I mean, that is exhausting, right? Who wants to think about all of those things before taking a simple photograph?

And that girl with no eyebrows totally looked like a penis. A dad gum penis.

armpits breath eyebrows House Pictures prepositions stuffed animals The Outsiders