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By Carrie Oeding
I'm not as much to look at as I think I am.
It is the fashion to put oneself down, except when fishing.
Someone hands me a plate of Mexican potato salad and says, Who made this fusion crap?
My friends say, We love you! Don't be so hard on yourself. I keep moving toward the edge of the pool to see my nice ears.
Friends! In order to have them I must say I let old people through doors first, that babies' shrieks make me gently call my breasts "momma," that every girl loves a pony, and that I think two lovers are broken halves that make a whole.
I'll mention Rob's name. Rob. Rob says he'd rather go fishing than come to these barbecues. I agree. Rob and I aren't friends.
The real moment of each night is when I decide between I have trees for friends or I have friends for trees.
When I'm ready to tell a story, I will. When I am, back off.
The best decision, when preparing to go, always is to make the Mexican potato salad.
The wrong decision, when accepting an invitation is to admit I know that a separated couple, a deviated septum, and a three-fingered child are still not as bad as being the shy one in the group.
Trees. Trees! The overlooked meat!
I'd prefer to hate myself than just say I hate myself.
My friends say I don't mention my friends enough. Give us names!
And when it's time to say goodnight, someone calls me Joan.
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