That Paris Hilton will stop being in the news on a regular basis.
This is the side of Paris we’re not seeing enough of lately.
You know the last time our beloved Paris did anything newsworthy? August. Where once I couldn’t turn on the TV without seeing her (mostly because I was turning it on with the express purpose of watching "The Simple Life"), I now can’t even remember what she looks like. Yesterday I read an entire issue of US Weekly that literally had zero mentions of her. The last time she was featured on Perez Hilton was nearly a month ago, under the headline “Paris Hilton Is Done With Partying!” I am ashamed to live in a world where Paris does not play a bigger role in the news. Shame on you, America.
That I will die without ever seeing someone slip on a banana peel.
They tried to make her slip on a banana peel and she said no, no, no. And then she slipped on it. How the HELL did I miss this story?
Every day that goes by is yet another missed opportunity. I’m not getting any younger, people! While slipping on a banana peel is as common in cartoons and slapstick comedies as eating hamburgers is in David Hasselhoff’s life, I have never actually seen it happen IRL. You’d think the combination of the frequency with which bananas are consumed in this country coupled with the coefficient of friction of banana-peel-on-linoleum would affect the incidence of this highly comedic scenario. I even eat a banana at work nearly every day in hopes that this will be the day. If I’m on my death bed and still haven’t seen this happen, whoever is lovingly clutching my hand, waiting for the will to be released, better friggin orchestrate a banana peel accident, at the very friggin least.
That I will become one of those people who can’t figure out technology.
My job in college mostly consisted of asking people “Is it plugged in? Did you turn it on? Try restarting it” and then smiling modestly when they praised me for being a technological genius and helping them fix their computer/VCR/projector. I used to mock these idiots, but I fear that I’m following in their dinosaurish footsteps. We got this new-fangled TV that came with a separate cable box (who knows why this is even necessary?) and every time I press the “all on” button on the remote—because of course there aren’t buttons on the actual TV anymore—the TV goes on but the cable box doesn’t, or vice versa. Then I stand there jabbing at random buttons, cursing Sony, wishing for a simpler time. It is the most annoying thing in the world and it makes me miss the good old days, before television had been invented.
That I do the white man overbite in da club.
I can’t believe there’s a site called “Lolbamas.”
This isn’t coming true—it came true. I dance like an uncoordinated, suburban, white male. I dance like Billy Crystal in "When Harry Met Sally." I undo all of the orthodontic magic my parents paid for back in ’03 every time a good Gaga song comes on. I even do the weird, erratic arm movements to accompany the toothy display. Luckily, as I mentioned in my banana peel fear, I’m not getting any younger. Hopefully I will soon reach an age where I am either expected to never dance again or it is at least understood that I would be bad at it.
That I will start to like Josh Groban.
He completely ruined "O Holy Night" for me. Thank God for Mariah.
I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again: I have bad taste in nearly everything. I think SJP is pretty. I own knock-off moon boots. I can’t get enough of "Secret Life of the American Teenager". But my bad taste is exceptionally badd (that means badd to the bone) when it comes to music. I heard a Susan Boyle song the other day—and I liked it. I broke down and put a Justin Bieber song on my workout playlist. I even stopped changing the station when Taylor Swift songs come on the air. The next logical step is Josh Groban, and that is an anxiety that haunts me in the loneliest hours of the night.