The idea is to write your memoir or epitaph in six words. If you can add an image to go along with it, so much the better. Then, simply sneak up behind 5 unsuspecting friends and whap them in the back of the head with it. Links need to be provided to the person who whapped you and to the originator of the meme, so they can see how far the thing goes. You can check out the place where it all began for a better explanation of the rules.
Well, the rules basically say I’m supposed to do a lot of things I never do. Such as tag people. My philosophy is that people can bloody well tag themselves, so if you want to take on this six-word meme madness, let nothing stop you.
Not even finding the right bleeding picture.
Right. Brilliant. More decisions to make. Which could have been my six-word memoir right there, but I’ve got something a little better, I think:
All of you reading this blog who find this meme irresistible, consider yourselves tagged. I’ll shout “You’re IT!” in your comments after the fact.
You know, the hazard of dwelling almost exclusively on the intertoobs is that you leave yourself open for this kind of shit. The dreaded Meme. The “How the fuck does this fit with my blog?” kind o’ thing. But my dear heart sister and co-blogger NP tagged me, and, well, it makes for an easy post during a dramatically busy week. So you all get to suffer.
Each player answers the questions about themselves. At the end of the post, the player then tags 5 people and posts their names, then goes to their blogs and leaves them a comment, letting them know they’ve been tagged and asking them to read your blog. Let the person who tagged you know when you’ve posted your answer.
What was I doing ten years ago?
I was a virtual teetotaler, sans tattoo, not yet in to black and death metal, just moving to Flagstaff on a drunken whim with two dear male friends (yes, I know what I just said – I wasn’t being a teetotaler that particular night). I’d not yet acquired an internet addiction. I was in lust with a vampiric Scottsman who considered me as his own dear sister. And I was a complete political innocent. My, how things change.
What are five (non-work) things on my to-do list for today?
1. Try not to die of exhaustion.
2. Finally get to the fucking Science Fiction Hall of Fame after a year of intending to.
3. Buy pants. This would be funny if you knew the signs for “Pants Do It!” in our obscene sign language.
4. Finish watching the Dresden Files and try not to roll my eyes at the horrific writing. Much.
5. We’re supposed to make fajitas. Fat fucking chance I’ll be in the mood after a day of downtown.
Five snacks I enjoy:
1. Babies (carrots, that is – what, did you think I really am a baby-eating atheist?)
2. Dried cow flesh
3. Stupid politicians
4. Religious fanatics
5. Nature Valley Chewy Granola Bars
Things I would do if I were a billionaire:
1. Get the Spider Jerusalem KISS HERE tattoo. What do you think? Let or right butt cheek?
2. Use said tattoo to hand in my resignation.
3. Make sure the parental units are accommodated.
4. Buy a house surrounded by ten acres of property, fenced, with hungry wolf-malamutes inside to keep people from visiting uninvited while I’m writing full time.
5. Hire my friends to do ridiculous things, like become my Personal Layabout. Applications accepted in comments. Refer to the tattoo at #1 for an idea of what your life would be like.
Places I’ve lived:
1. Terre Haute, IN
2. Flagstaff, AZ
3. Sedona, AZ
4. Page, AZ
5. Prescott, AZ
6. Tempe, AZ
7. Mesa, AZ
8. Kirkland, WA
9. My own head
Jobs I’ve had:
1. Book store clerk (responsible for finding a book based on no better description than “It’s this big and it’s blue”)
2. Apparel salesperson (the next person who snaps their fingers and says “MISS!” to summon me loses those fingers, guaranteed)
3. Video store clerk (I don’t wanna talk about it)
4. Call center rep for a business forms company (I now know why 90% of small business fail miserably. It’s because people are too stupid to own them.)
5. Call center rep for a credit card company (And yes, we really will charge you a late fee for being a minute late. You’re the desperate bastard who signed the terms. Better get on your Congresscritter for that legislation.)
6. Call center rep for a cell phone company (No, we don’t have a sample of every single phone at our desks. No, we can’t tell you what that strange button on the side of your phone is. Of course the owner’s manual is fucking useless. Yes, your teenager really did send 3,000 text messages during class last week. Seriously.)
Tag! You’re it…
Only if you wanna be. Inflict misery on yourselves. I’m not a sadist. Much.