I could write a post on the things I’m amazing at, but it would pretty much just look like this:
Instead, I’ve decided that it would be much more fun to write a post about all the things I’m not so amazing at so then you’ll realise that I’m actually only a barely-functioning adult who still can’t tell her right from her left. Then you’re bound to respect me, right? I mean left…no, right. *nervous laugh*
I Can’t Dance
I’ve discussed this at length in a previous post but in case you’re too lazy to go check it out (you need to get out of this rut you’re in) here’s the low down:
When I dance, people get hurt. And I’m not talking emotionally, although that probably is the case too. I have actually injured people.
When Jack and I get married, I’m going to put a brunette wig on a sack of potatoes for him to dance with. I doubt anyone will notice the difference.
I can’t Math
If I am ever required to do basic arithmetic, I panic. For instance, we’ll say I have to decide how much money to take out at the ATM:
Right…so I need ten for bread, milk, biscuits and eggs. And twenty for petrol. So that’s…negative thirteen? What? Okay, let’s take out fifty.
This is why I’m so poor.
I Can’t Concentrate For Long Periods
I try my best to pay attention when someone is talking to me but I almost always end up zoning out and venturing off into “Jane Land”, where I am president and it rains owls. Because of this, I miss huge chunks of people’s stories and when I’m introducing people to each other, it usually goes something like this:
Me: Liam, this is Patricia. She likes…bacon? You like bacon, right Patricia?
See, it’s a trick because everyone likes bacon.
I’m basically this:
I Can’t Not Cry
I am an emotional person. Seriously, I cry at adverts on TV. That old lady was being scammed out of her life insurance damn it!
Emotional adverts aside, my hypersensitivity is actually very embarrassing. Jack and I will be watching some sappy film, and the second the cheesy music starts playing, I’m off. Jack makes it worse by leaning forward, staring right into my tear-soaked face and asking me if I’m crying, to which I reply:
I’m not crying. I’ve dust in my eye. YOU’RE CRYING.
I Can’t Sing
That doesn’t mean I don’t sing, just that when I do, it sounds like the mating call of a tomcat that has been incarcerated in an all-male detention centre for his entire life. Or, if you’d prefer an actual quote from my boyfriend, a yodeller being eviscerated.
I’m tempted to audition for one of those Simon Cowell judged competitions just to be told how abysmal I really am. I’d imagine he’d say something like “that was like listening to a llama whose foot got stuck in barbed wire appealing to his friend two fields over to come to his assistance” and I’d be like “Oh Simon, this is so us.” And then we’d become BFFs and he’d buy me a Floridan mansion where Paula Abdul would make frequent but unwelcome visits. Butt out, Paula.
I Can’t Be Normal
You know when you’re having a run-of-the-mill conversation with someone about the weather? I don’t. My conversations usually go something like this:
Friend: …So that’s all my news…Jane, what are you thinking about?
Me: Do you think emus cry?
Why don’t you come and tell me what you can’t do and we’ll celebrate our failures together? Or cry. Whatever.
Remember, you can still vote for me in the Bloggies. I’m up for Most Humorous Weblog. If you already have, thank you so much.