Fearsome Fears

I got my hair cut yesterday.

This was done in a desperate attempt to combat a truly terrible feature that I, for some inexplicable reason, was cursed with.

Baby Face Syndrome.

This is true problem, as having the face of a fourteen year old is hardly desirable.  My host mother actually described it as the face of baby and the body of… RAWR.  Literally.  She growled at my body.  I take this to mean I do not possess the body of a fourteen year old.  Which begs the question –

Is this like being some sort of mutant animal?  Like… a centaur?

Also, really would like to purchase a leather jacket, but am afraid of looking like a lesbian.

Not that I’m against lesbians, I just happen to not be one.  Therefore it would be wrong to dress like one.

That’d be false advertising.

This reminds me: I have fears.

Some find this difficult to believe, as I will happily doggy-paddle through any ocean, hurl myself from any height (assuming precautionary measures have been taken), and hold a conversation with any form of a costumed individual (clown, mime, firefighter).

But please do not expect me to walk past a midget.

I also blatantly refuse to sing “Happy Birthday”, as I am rather incapable.  I can never stay on tune (or at least keep in the same octave as everyone else), and spend the entire joyous song hopelessly hopping from note to note, desperately trying to make it sound like a melody. 

My lip-syncing, however, is impeccable.

Yet though I have adapted this coping strategy, deep down I am still utterly petrified that someone, someday, will give me The Birthday Song Test.  And I will fail and be kicked out of birthday celebrations forever.

Which would truly be a pity, as I am rather fond of cake.

Dead things throw me into a bit of a panic.  Still not entirely sure why this is, although I do have my theories – the most prevalent is that I simply do not know what to do with them.  See, with a living opossum, I know to avoid it.  He is living his merry little life, and I am living mine, and there is no particular reason our lives should intersect each other’s.  Also, I do not like the idea of it running over my feet, should I get too close.  (Or potentially playing dead, which would be a bit counterproductive for my example.)

But a dead opossum?  Walking directly over it seems a bit sacrilegious.  Blatantly ignoring it strikes me as equally rude, so I often just pretend it’s still alive and behave accordingly.

Don’t want to hurt its feelings.

Facebook can be a place of terrors. 

It seems fairly straightforward, Facebook stalking.  But I often find that I have wandered on to someone’s profile who is very much so removed from me – to the point that we have absolutely no friends in common, and are not reliably of the same species.

It is one of my greatest fears that I will not be able to navigate away from the page safely.

What if I accidently add them as a friend?  Or like something they said?  I’ll forever be known as the Worst Facebook Stalker Ever!

Which, honestly, I might already be, as I tend to get distracted by puppies and forget to stalk their owners.

So there you have it – Virginia, Unmasked.

On a different note, it has recently been decided that my hermano (translation: hamster) will be coming to visit in mere days!

This is quite exciting, as he speaks absolutely no Spanish and knows virtually nothing about Argentina.

This means I can drag him wherever I please and if he complains I can leave him stranded places.

I think I will enjoy this.