How to Be an Idiot. Directions: Open Mouth, Insert Foot.

Most products have to attach a warning label to ensure that the idiots of this world don't go forth and multiply the millions of lawsuits already in court. Don't get me started on McDonald's hot coffee.

So to applaud or rather wonder what has happened to make these companies think that these warnings are really necessary, I've compiled a list of stupid labels from products around my house.

Inspired by my Blow Dryer: Never Use While Sleeping. I now present to you 5 more reasons why humans shouldn't survive.

Found on my deodorant: Ask a doctor before use if you have kidney disease.
Just like that. Kidney disease is not in bold.

Found on a feminine product: The tube opening should be sealed. Do Not Use if (see picture) design is not visible.
That's a rip off. Every New York hooker has that warning.

Feminine Pads: To avoid dangers of suffocation, keep away from babies and children.
If these pads hadn't taken a vacation for 9 months I don't think babies and children would be a concern.

Garden Clippers: Do not twist tool when cutting; blade could break throwing sharp pieces in all directions.
Well that solves it. I'm using these if an intruder breaks into my house.

Also, I discovered a fun fact on the back of my new toothbrushes: Turning off your water while brushing your teeth can save you up to four gallons of water each time you brush.
GENIUS.

Feel inspired readers. There are people out there who are dumber then you. I just wish I could get them to read my blog.

Love,
Grace

Return of the Writer, Fail Version

I utterly fail at being a writer. It's February. Meaning that for the entire month of January I didn't write a damn thing. Fail.

I think my parents originally named me Procrastination Jones. However, they thought that might lead to a series of failed job interviews turning me either into a heroine hooker or a forever-teenager eating Cheetos and drinking Mountain Dew while watching endless reality television and making a permanent indent on their couch.

I always leave everything to the last minute. I mean everything. Here is a list of DISTRACTIONS:
Facebook

the dog

 A New Book

the dog

Wheel of Fortune

the dog

StumbleUpon (damn you StumbleUpon)

the dog

My husband

the dog

The cat attacking the dog

the dog.

How about a fun fact. I promised myself I'd write a book by 25. I also promised myself that I'd publish said book. One big problem, me. For whatever reason I can force myself to sing Karaoke to a bar full of drunks but I can't force myself to finish a novel.

I'd have to find an editor willing to take on a completely unknown writer, with a book proposal that's been brewing in my head since my senior year of high school. Help me edit said manuscript (because I'm a complete idiot with grammar). Publish and hopefully be good enough to sell some copies. My life goal is 3. That would mean only 3 people would have to be gullible enough to read the crap I've written. Then I could die happy.

So folks, how about it? If I start now I could finish the manuscript by the time I turn 24 and start sending out copies one at a time. Then I could finally finish the bathroom I've been working on by wallpapering the walls with all the rejection letters I'm going to get. Maybe some off the wall editor will take my third grade grammar manuscript and spit shine it until it's eligible for an eighth grade spelling bee and sell it to a failing publishing company who will print exactly three copies. By that time I will be 37 and my dream will be effectively crushed. Smooshed. Flat. Like the spider still stuck to the wall above my shower (ew, and yes I'm too short to get it down so I just shower with one eye on the ceiling to make sure it doesn't come back from the dead to kill me).

The one problem is, I am the problem. I could do this. I could do this if only there wasn't a paralyzing fear of failure every time my fingers touch the keyboard. The reality is I can't imagine my life or my ideas are even remotely interesting enough for people to read.

The truth being I'll never know unless I try.

So I guess I'll try. Here is me dedicating myself to a deadline. At least a rough draft manuscript of whatever crap I can muster up to equal roughly 200+ pages by my 24th Birthday. I have until October.

At least I tried.

Also, the dog keeps pooping in vapor form. Gross. See what I mean about distractions.

If I can do this, I blame you. You will be my three obligated book buyers so I can die happy. I'll even sign them. They'll be worth exactly fifty cents at the library book sale in twenty years. Congratulations on your investment.

F.

I can do this.

Love,
Grace