When I was about five years old, I had a book of illustrated nursery rhymes. A favorite was The Girl with the Curl :
There once was a girl, who had a little curl right in the middle of her forehead.
When she was good, she was very, very good.
And when she was bad — she was horrid.
Imagine that rhyme read by a child in a creepy sing-song whisper. Gives me chills as an adult.
But at five I found that word — Horrid — fascinating for some reason. I think in part because I was unsure how it should rhyme with “forehead” in the rhyme. But also because it had a delicious mouthfeel, a sort of woody British caramel of a word. Horrid. Horrid. Oh, that’s simply horrid. Horrid.
Here’s where my actions become less clear to me. I made the decision to pick up a black ball-point pen and write the word “Horrid” on my pillow. This was a one-time event. The only thing I have ever written on a pillow was the word horrid. Maybe I wanted to look at the word each day when I went to bed? I don’t know. All I know is that when you scrawl a word on a pillow with a ball-point pen in a child’s handwriting, the result is terrifying, especially if the word is Horrid.
My parents must have been secretly petrified of me.
Sometimes I sit and brainstorm lists of ideas for subjects to write about, either for this blog or for a sketch-writing class that I’m taking. Here’s a list I put together one night last week, just before falling asleep. I honestly don’t know what many of them mean. I feel like I found someone else’s diary entry, and I’m frankly concerned for the mental health of the writer.
Murder Channel Pitch Meeting
Terrible Idea Warehouse
Culture Wars, Let’s Fight it Out
Penises are Ridiculous.
Escalating Expressions of love
If Fronking You is Wrong, I Don’t Wanna Be Right
Dic Pics are the Cure for Strep throat
Speed, in Kindergarten
Project Runway Challenge: Prisoner of Fashion (Ambush and Kidnap people off the street to make them over. You have 2 days to forcibly kidnap a “muse” from the street, then make them over using the clothes on their back.)
Catholic Martyr Mom Versus Jewish Guilt Mom: Final Smackdown
Booze: It’s What Dreams are Made of
Boobs are For Everybody
You Be Ponch, I’ll Be John
Gretchen Pornackle, Publicist to the Unknown
I came upon this sign in Copley Square a couple of weeks ago.
You know, I visited a Massage Envy many years ago and had a massage that was not to be envied.
And I have been visited by many evils since then…