Tag Archives: funny not slutty

Keep It Down, Please

If the saying, “How old would you be if you didn’t know how old you were?” is true, that would mean I am approximately 103 years old and counting.

Not only do I physically feel old and barely recognize myself in the mirror any more, but I also go to bed by 10, enjoy prunes, gripe about technology and the clothes teenagers wear, forget what I said five minutes ago and often put “the” in front of things that don’t require it—such as, “The Target” or “The Twitter.”

I would like to think I’m simply an old soul. Yes, let’s go with that.

But one more thing that I’ve noticed lately is that I can’t stand loud things, which inevitably means I’m going to start standing on my sidewalk and yelling (ironically) at cars driving by to turn down that garbage on their radio or asking people to use their indoor voices when speaking into my good ear.

This new thing has been silently sneaking up on me but I’m noticing it more and more.

It’s like everyone has ramped up the volume when they speak, most likely because they have their head bent over their phone or forget what it’s like to actually interact with another human when not connected via Internet.

However, it’s not just vocal volume that is grating on my nerves. It’s the sound of doors shutting a little too hard, staplers smashing down on papers and lord help me—people typing on their keyboards like they’re playing Whac-A-Mole with their fingers and the keys.

And the sound of people slurping up their drinks or eating corn on the cob? I’ll admit it sparks feelings of rage comparable to when I hear someone TYPING REALLY LOUD ON THEIR KEYBOARD.

Perhaps I’m just overstimulated with all the noise we’re faced with every day, but most likely I’m just oversensitive and undermedicated.

All of this is to say that at 30, I still have a hard time believing that the ’90s were 20 years ago and that 2012 is a “thing.” When I hear that some of my favorite athletes were born after the glorious year of 1981 when I graced this planet with my presence, a tiny little tear drips down my wrinkly face. 

OK. In my old age I may be prone to slight hyperbole, as even in my advanced state I remembered enough about the ’80s to share some of my memories over at funnynotslutty.com. If you’re so inclined and want to see a picture of me grabbing my boobs, head on over that way.

Just please gently shut the door when you go…

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