Paparazzi

(Note: There is no real point to today's post. I'm in a silly mood and started typing.)

I know I've said it before, but I think I'm pretty awesome.

Clarification. I know I am pretty awesome. Quite possibly the epitome of awesomeness. Who's gonna argue against that? (I'll karate chop you in the throat if you do. Be warned, friend.) I've lived a life chock full of awesomeness and kickass things. Being born, circa 1985. Selling my brother for a brief period of time in 1991. The Lashawn Fan Club, circa 1997. Taping toilet paper to my shoe in 8th grade and taking off down the hall. Falling down the stairs so many times at St. Joe's and making it look cool. Breaking Jesus and putting him back together with Sticky-Tac. Getting suspended six times in a Catholic high school. Taping a picture of MC Hammer on the back wall of my Honors English 11 class. Jumping over a box at Burger King and missing the other side and falling in the box, in front of a full restaurant of people. Walking like a really crappy drag queen when I wear high heels. Organizing a Miss America pageant in grade school and getting the boys in my class to do the "Here she is, Miss America" wave. Writing a play in 7th grade that we never performed but everyone was psyched about (the writing wasn't that awesome, but the concept was). Sitting on the floor in Honors English 12 when I really was supposed to sit in my chair.

You can't really plan or be taught these things, no. You just have to let them come to you, just let them happen. You have to be born with that kind of raw excellence.

I'm an iconoclast. I do awe inspiring things daily, whether it be saying something dazzlingly witty or making people roll their eyes or tripping over nothing or muttering to myself...I can always be counted on to jazz things up, to be the cilantro in the spice rack of life. I'm a one-woman production. I'm F-ing awesome, dude. You don't mess with that Nobel Prize winning formula. Nay. (Apparently, I'm also quite the Narcissist.)

I mean, I like to sit in my pajamas on a Friday night (when I'm broke, holla) and eat ice cream and watch Law and Order DVDs with my dad. Why? Because it's badass, that's why. No one who wasn't in touch with their awesomeness would dare admit to such a thing, but since I am the Chuck Norris of Awesomeness, I can and will admit to it. I'm secure in my awesomeness.

I'm scared of squirrels. How many people confident enough with their supreme coolness would reveal such a potentially embarrassing factoid to the world? (That particular fear is getting a bit out of control, actually. We'll address that later on, in another post.) How many people can say they had dreams about being best friends with David Beckham, called him Becks, and drank a most likely vile concoction of vodka and Gatorade? Not too many, I'm sure. How many people wrote wondrous little ditties about Erik the Red and his son, Leif Erikson? Exactly.

It takes a special person to carry the torch of insanity.