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“I got in an argument with my neighborhood clown. Can you believe that? Not the argument but that I have a clown in my neighborhood.”

“Sarah, that’s what happens when you don’t go to your city council meetings. They take the money from the new street sign fund and hire a neighborhood clown. It’s a horrible case of misappropriation.”

“Yeah, because misappropriation is the real issue here. What about the fact that there’s someone with really horrible make-up living so close to me? You know my fear of people who use too much blush.”

“The way your mind works, Sarah, is far scarier than any clown.”

I spent the Fourth of July just like every other American: chasing the neighborhood ice cream truck around the block, which totally counts as exercise. Just so you know.

I didn’t see any non-dairy options and figured it wouldn’t hurt to ask…

“Do you have any soy ice cream?”

“No.”

“What about coconut milk ice cream?”

“No.”

“What about Nut Rolls?”

“Um, no.”

“Well what good are you? Some adults don’t want dairy.”

“I bring ice cream to children and you’re not a child.”

“Good observation but I may have a kid hidden in the backyard waiting for a treat.”

“In that case I may call the police.”

WHAT THE HELL? I thought those creepy dudes were in charge of molesting children, not protecting them.

Obviously I didn’t have a kid in my backyard, otherwise I would have sent the kid to fetch my treat. Everyone knows kids are just short slaves.

Sheesh.

Last Friday as I left the office my favorite nerd asked me what I was doing over the weekend. “I’m cutting my hair off on Saturday and going to Pride Festival on Sunday.”

“Uh, why would you do that?”

“Do what? Drink wine coolers in public to support all things gay?”

“Not that, the hair part. You’re really cutting it off? I almost told you earlier how great it looked after our scooter ride. It really does flow nicely.”

“Thanks, but it’s fuzzy and I hate it so I’m cutting it off and giving it to the cancer kids.”

“Ohh, those poor little kids. Cancer is bad enough, why punish them with your hair?”

“What the hell? You just said how pretty it was. Can’t you see what a good thing I’m doing? I’m giving my beautiful, golden locks to kids who need hair.”

“Sarah, you just said you hated your hair!”

“Hated hair is better than no hair. Why do you ALWAYS have to ruin everything for me?”

As I made my dramatic exit I couldn’t help but wonder if I was, indeed, making a huge mistake. It’s silly, I know, but long hair makes me feel prettier and skinnier. Short hair, not so much. I ignored my fear and stuck with my plan.

My short hair has been surprisingly more work than before. Sure there’s less blow-drying time, but then I’m faced with trying to find clothes that match my new style. Boho country girl clothes don’t really work without the long waves. So for now I just wear jeans and wife-beaters.

Those cancer kids had better appreciate my hair, because when it grows back I’m keeping it.

I’m legitimately concerned about the well-being of my lady parts. “Sex and the City 2” opened and I haven’t made plans to see it yet.

Or made plans to sneak booze into the theater, which is completely out of character for me. I love boozy movies with my girlfriends. It’s like therapy, but with more calories and antioxidants.

Obviously my vagina is broken.

I left a voicemail for my doctor (which, in hindsight probably sounded creepy and may get me arrested) and then turned to the internet.

WebMD was no help. There were 31 results for broken vagina, but none of them applied to my dilemma. Instead I learned about breech births and foreign objects placed in the vagina. I decided I’m never having kids, or sticking hot dogs up there. I’m a vegan, after all.

I moved to Google. Also not a lot of help. The predictive search for “symptoms of a broken vagina” was “symptoms of a broken valve spring.”

Is that what the kids are calling vag today? I’m way too upset to understand slang. The internet doesn’t care about the health of my vagina! This hardly seems fair since the damn internet is full of advice on male anatomy, and thus proves my theory that the internet is, indeed, a man.

Jerk.

Some people leave themselves daily affirmations on their bathroom mirrors.

Not me.

I leave myself reminder notes on the shower tile with rejected lip liner colors.

Since I don’t have anyone else to do it, I also leave myself love notes around the house. This is not as sad as it sounds. I just really love notes.

And lists.

And obviously reminder notes. Without them how would I ever remember to do things?

Um, I wouldn’t.

“You know how I’m obsessed with making lists and Google docs?”

“Yeah, Sarah, I know.”

“Well, I created a Google doc for all of your good and bad qualities.”

“You did? I want to read it.”

“No. What if it hurts your feelings?”

“Sarah, it won’t. I promise.”

“Oh riiiight, because you don’t have any feelings… that’s already on the list.”

I detest grocery shopping.

I hate thinking about the calories sitting in my cart. I hate trying to find food I can actually eat. And I especially hate handing over my bank card.

It’s all bullshit.

Last night when faced with starvation I ignored the hatred and headed to Harmons.

While trying to find the perfect apple I heard someone behind me.

“Ma’am I think you dropped your shopping list.”

I ignored the shit out of him.

“Excuse me… ma’am you dropped something.”

I wasn’t about to let someone get away with calling me ma’am, so I continued to ignore the shit out of him.

“MA’AM DID YOU HEAR ME? I think you dropped your shopping list.”

“Of course I heard you. I’m just ignoring you.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said I was ignoring you. I don’t respond when people call me names.”

“I’m sorry ma’am, you must have heard me wrong. I didn’t call you a name.”

“THERE YOU GO AGAIN. Stop calling me that!”

I placed the apples in my cart and in a dramatic huff turned and walked away.  Just as I was about to leave the produce section I hear a booming voice.

“MISS, I THINK YOU FORGOT YOUR KEGEL EXERCISE INSTRUCTIONS.”

Fuck. My. Life.

This:

was written on the back of this:

I thought I was all ‘Miss Green Party Hero’ for recycling the homework from my gynecologist. Instead, I was ‘Asshole of the Day’ for being a dick to someone trying to help.

I’d like to say I learned my lesson, but that would be a lie. And I don’t have time to worry what the karmic reaction is for lying. I’m going to be very busy trying to figure out how to punch karma in the balls.

“Summer, change of plans. I can’t make the gym tonight. I’m going to be busy killing myself.”

“Umm… that’s not OK! How about I just kill you at the gym?”

“I don’t think you understand the severity of my situation. I just did the math and had I gotten knocked up in high school I could have an 18-year-old right now.”

“Wow.”

“I’m the oldest, single, childless woman I know. I AM GOING TO DIE ALONE, so I think I’ll just go ahead and get it over with now. I’m going to leave you my womb. Please clear out the cobwebs and put the little fucker to good use.”

“Sarah, it’s time to shut the hell up. You’re not going to die alone.”

“Yes I am! I just heard it on NPR.”

“Well I guess if NPR said it, it must be true.”

“I KNOW, Liberal media never lies.”

My friend Scott and I have been friends for 10 years, so it pains me to write this next part.

Scott is a total asshole.

I’m soooo mad at him right now.  Not “I’m going to flip you off” mad, but rather “I’m going to jack your shit up in a knife fight” mad.

Yeah, this is serious business.

I told Scott that I was confident if I were to meet Bon Jovi, he’d totally fall for me. Bon Jovi seems like the kind of guy who would appreciate a smart, funny and somewhat neurotic woman. Not at all like that Bret Michaels who only goes for STD-ridden hookers with bad grammar.

“Sarah you’re kidding me with this Bon Jovi shit, right? He’s been married to the same woman for 20 years.”

CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT?

Friends are supposed to be supportive. He should have said agreed and then helped formulate a plan for us to meet.

So I’m like, “I HATE YOU SO MUCH RIGHT NOW. I’m younger and that means things are tighter. If nothing else Bon Jovi would want to be my new BFF. You’re out Scott. He’s in.”

“Fine, Sarah, I will try and friend him on FaceBook. I’ll keep you posted.”

FaceBook? That’s the best he can do? That’s lousy. If the situation were reversed I’d be starting trends on Twitter, sending Bon Jovi kittens with Scott’s name shaved into their fur and generally stalking the shit out of him.

I’d make an impression.

NOT friend him on FaceBook.

Friends are bullshit, man. OBVIOUSLY.