I am going to try to blog more. Seems like a healthy outlet. Like, an outlet you could plug a lava lamp into without fear of getting electrocuted. Or something.
I've learned over the years that I do much better when given a writing prompt. And a time limit of some sort. Currently it is 902 PM, I am going to give myself until 933 to write a blog post on "Is Mayonnaise An Instrument?" (thanks @chewbacca__ for this beyond weird thought-starter).
Instrument (n): a tool or implement, especially one for delicate or scientific work.
All right, let's break down mayonnaise here. It is a condiment, so one could argue that it carries out the function of making turkey sandwiches a little less boring. Coming from a girl who has a chronic Case of the Mundane, I need a little mayo in my life to keep things interesting. And let's be real--the perfect sandwich is kind of a scientific work.
When it comes to burgers, I like my mayonnaise like I like my men--ON THE SIDE. Haha, does that make sense? Probably not. And so I digress.
The more I think about it, a restaurant is kind of like a symphony of sorts--you've got forks scraping and clanking while A Thousand Miles plays faintly over the sound of impatient patrons tapping their feet anxiously while awaiting the arrival of their food.
There's usually also a little kid leaning over the booth making weird faces at you while you're trying to enjoy your basket of chicken fingers. And an obnoxious wanna-be comedian loudly chronicling some lame story to his less-than-enthused friends.
This is where the "mayonnaise as instrument" weaves its way into the tapestry of weirdness that is this blog post.
Instruments (in the musical sense) produce noise. Next time you're annoyed at that wanna-be comedian, simply scoop up a spoonful of mayonnaise and fling it at the dude so that he yells in surprise. Yelling = noise. THEN point to the little demon kid doing handstands in the booth ahead of you and blame him. THERE YOU GO. Wanna-be comedian will lose story-telling steam as he goes to the bathroom to wash his face and the child will be reprimanded by his parents and taken outside. Or to the nearest McDonalds play land where he can get lost in the ball pit, hopefully.
But also, maybe don't fling that mayonnaise at the wanna-be comedian if she happens to be feverishly pretending to text during those awkward silences in which her friends don't laugh. Because she might be me. And it isn't fun jumping over the tumbleweeds bouncing past your table to run to a public restroom in order to wash mayonnaise out of your hair.
I'm dying omg
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