I'm all about shortcuts.
Ctrl+C, Ctrl+X, Ctrl+V, Ctrl+Z.
I use and abuse them on a constant basis.
If only there was a Ctrl+abort mission? Nope. Trump's still here. But we don't give a hoot about that racist asshole, so let's move on.
I've become so versed in various shortcuts that I often try to use them when they clearly won't work. Like in my brain.
Go with me: I like to try on seven thousand outfits before I leave the house. Sure, I end up putting on the one you just saw me in yesterday, but apparently it's sport for me to sweat off my freshly adhered makeup.
I'll call it cardio.
"Dammit all to bleeping hell, Christy. Ctrl+Z, Ctrl+Z, Ctrl+Z. I should've kept on that outfit three changes ago."
So then I change into Outfit Three Changes ago and hate it.
Dearest Future (not the rapper), I'd like to Ctrl+Z my outfits. Get Huey Lewis on the horn. Let's get rolling on this project.
Point is, I Ctrl+(insert letter here) in my head all the time.
Ctrl+X that dying rose off our plant Astrid in the backyard. She'd sprout a fancy new one if I pruned her, but the shears are inside and inside is far away.
Ctrl+C and Ctrl+V my husband's full beer. I'm thirsty and ... it's inside.
Ctrl+X that dingleberry off of Great Pyrenees Abby's back leg. It's probably poop, and I don't want to touch it with house scissors.
Ctrl+A the tufts of dog hair all over the living room. Then Ctrl+delete it.
Ctrl+F my keys, they're not on the key hook.
Ctrl+B my coffee in the morning. It needs more robustness.
Ctrl+N my house, it's a mess.
Ctrl+Z that hairspray in my hair.
Ctrl+V that rose you Ctrl+Xed off Astrid into a vase.
Ctrl+V, Ctrl+V, Ctrl+V, Ctrl+V, Ctrl+V, Ctrl+V, that beer that you Ctrl+C'ed up there from Husband.
Ctrl+ALT+delete, brain. You're still talking and I need sleep.
Look, none of this is plausible, but I like to talk.
Another shortcut I love and inadvertently do is hit the "unlock" button for my car keys when I walk up to my house door.
Now there's a plausible feature. Future, Huey Lewis, Nayvadius DeMun Wilburn. I want quick results and make it cheap. Chop, chop. (That last guy is "Future" and I fear my Huey Lewis reference is lost on you. I'd Ctrl+X it, but it's now in this column twice and I'm thirsty.)
Once upon a pink liver ago, I was taking a shortcut home from class when attending the University of Florida. I got lost. I came across a giant swamp and had to choose my own adventure. At Point A, do I: 1.) walk around the left-hand side, which was at least a mile (we can't all be from Boulder, kids); 2.) walk around the right-hand side, which was at least a mile; or 3.) walk across that really thin strip of land down the middle, which is the fastest way to Point B.
Obviously I ended up in the middle of the thin strip with a 12-foot-long alligator staring me down. "Don't run!" scholars teach us.
As I felt the warm pee spread across my inner thighs, I ran. I went home and Ctrl+chugged the shit out of some Natty Light and threw away my jeans.