I'm good! All better!
Yesterday was a good day.
Today is good too.
My mum just phoned me. I love it when she does. We chatted about this and that - literally about this. This blog and how I cheer her up with my funny story of Stuart's jump drive.
I like to hear that I cheer people up but I also like to hear about how funny I am. Is that pride? It feels like it might be. The truth is that sometimes I'm typing out real life stories of myself and I'm laughing really hard. I find myself to be really funny and try to paint the most vivid picture of the hilarity as possible. I find myself hoping for something embarrassing to happen to me so I can write and laugh about it. I don't even find embarrassing things to be embarrassing anymore. I first realised that when I was saying that prayer at Beki's wedding. I knew I should be embarrassed but it was hilarious! Did I even tell that story in detail on here? Probably not, I was trying to keep Beki from hating me for it.
I want to have more funny stories than sad stories to tell people. I want to make the painful stories funny because pain can last much longer than it should if you don't find something funny about it and really, when you get hurt physically it's usually caused by some sort of stupidity, right? I want to focus more on the stupidity than the actual pain but miming out the actual pain can be so funny too... That's how I tell my stories atleast. Facial expressions and flailing hands.
I think that's where my spice comes from. Being able to laugh at myself and at other people,
"Sure it must have hurt like hell but did you see how your legs buckled right under you as you skited down the path?! I couldn't have done that if I'd tried!" *high 5*
I think my mum is the one who taught me to laugh at myself because whenever I'd get hurt she'd laugh but not all the time (I can practically hear you denying that right now mum!).
The time I'm thinking about was one night we decided to go down to the Spar (convenience store usually plonked in the middle of a neighbourhood) for whatever reason. I don't remember doing that any other time. Anyway, it was dark and cold outside. As we were going down the cycle path (no, not that one) and mum spots a random patch of ice under a street lamp which we're aproaching. To be honest it looked like someone had poured water out to make it into ice. My guess is it was the gang of hoolies sitting on the wall right across from it with the empty bucket. Just a guess though.
I'm walking to the outside of it to protect my poor, old, delicate mother of course. I step on the ice and take a step but not really because I might have actually been having a cartoon run at that moment. My feet were moving but I was going nowhere, you know the kind. I drop like a ton of bricks. The spotlight is on me, the one flopping about on the ground like a fish. And it was actually a spotlight, that wasn't for dramatic effect, I was right under a street light. I look up at my mum expecting to see her hand out reached to me but no, she's doubled over laughing. Ruuuude! I stand up and try to take a step and clatter to the ground again. Everyone enjoying the show, my mum *really* enjoying it. Still no hand. I try again and fall again. Then finally upsadaisy! and we walk away. My mum weeping with laughter and me with a chipped bone in my nosepicking finger on my left hand.
We walked the back way home.
But it's ok that she found it hilarious because I laughed at her the two times she sprayed Deep Heat under her arms instead of deodorant AND lets not forget the good old story of Hickie Lips!
Hickie Lips... now there's a cracker!
Once upon a time there was a Queen who doted -and still does given the chance- on her little Prince. The little Prince was only one year old at the time and already had everyone under his spell. Especially his grandparents, the King and Queen.
On this particular evening the Queen had fed him a delicious little pot of yoghurt and was now entertaining the little man by ever so gracefully sucking the empty yoghurt vessel to her face. Hilarity was had all round by young and old alike. It only grew funnier as the little Prince would enter a war with is grandmother as he tried to pull the pot from her face as she sucked it harder to prevent removal. The game lasted a while until the Queen had to remove herself to prepare for another engagement she had that night.
As she entered the lavatory she let out a yelp catching a glimpse at herself in the mirror. Her royal highness had been having such a royal hoot with the little man that she had forgotten the science behind the game. The removal of the sucked on cup had left her with two ginormously bruised lips and some very entertained family members - and stake members too.
I need to write down more stories. That is where my spice is.