Specifically shows like CSI. Maybe mostly just CSI. I was driving back from Dallas last weekend and was thinking about how CSI has flat out ruined my life. I'm already verging on being a sincerely anxious and guilt-ridden person due to multiple converging factors, not least of which is having been raised in West Texas Bible Belt Thumping Baptist Hellfire and Damnation Will Eat You In Your Sleep, Sinner! culture that is Lubbock, Texas. In any case criminal investigation shows that prove how ANYONE can be found out by the trail of evidence that they inevitably leave behind no matter how meticulous they are really mess with my anxious and guilty mind.
Example number one: I fart in a room with lots of people. I know this is rude. I either couldn't control it, or didn't care enough to leave the room. Then I think of Grissom's and Willows' disappointment when they spray some magical scientific fart-detecting spray into the room that will turn my poop-smelling gas purple and the trail will LEAD RIGHT UP TO MY BUTTHOLE and then everyone will KNOW and I will be damned. Forever. And then my glee at causing other people's olfactory discomfort anonymously will entirely dissipate, unlike my fart, which probably has actually gained potency in its rounds offending people in the room. Which only makes me feel guiltier. Fuck you, Grissom and Willows.
Example number two: I steal from my parents. The only two things I actually steal and not borrow are things I'm most ashamed of. My mother's old lady boxed wine and my father's prunes. Yes. Those. I think "my mother will never know because the wine is in a BOX" Therefore it's really difficult to gauge the level of wine inside. BONUS FOR ME. Until my guilt and fear kick in. I remember stealing booze from my friends parents in High School (Sorry, Jeff and Linda) and feeling little to no remorse. Probably because I was getting drunk and then too concerned with the hangover to feel guilt. But when I steal a glass from my mom's shitty boxed wine to have with my pasta that I cooked for dinner, ALL OF A SUDDEN I AM CONSUMED BY FEAR that my fingerprints will glow blue in the dark and she'll know. Or that the little bit of wine that comes out at the end after you've quit pushing that little dispenser button, like the little bit of extra piss that men shake out of their penises after they're done peeing, will dribble onto the pristine white fridge and I'LL BE FOUND OUT. Nevermind that I could (a) ask my mom and she wouldn't care or (b) wipe up the post-release wine dribble. I am probably too lazy. Or something. In any case, I'll be enjoying my glass of wine with my lemon-olive oil bay scallop linguini with arugula and BAM I'll think about how one of the cute CSI dudes (Sanders or Stokes) would totally be disappointed in me because I had failed to adequately cover my tracks. Which is impossible anyway, because no matter how genius those criminal fuckers are on that show IT ALWAYS COMES OUT. And then you're going to jail. "YES oh my god I'm so sorry YES I did it! I drank a glass of your wine! I know I should have just asked but I didn't and now I'm going to be condemned to a jail of hellfire and damnation." Fuck you, CSI.
Yes. I said prunes earlier. That's the thing about living with old people. We have lots (like POUNDS) of prunes on-hand at any moment. Which is useful when you realize you haven't pooed in a couple days and you want an all natural way of jumpstarting your digestive tract. Besides the guilt and fear felt when I imagine that my father will send me to the Lake of Hellfire and Damnation/Jail when he discovers that the prune container is turned 30 degrees to the left, which was NOT how he last left it, thereby deducing that I was the dirty culprit who stole from him, having prunes on hand is kind of nice. But definitely weird.
Other weird things about living with old people, like how they stash pills in various articles of clothing, to come in next post.
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