Wil Wheaton posted a link on his blog awhile back that takes you to a site that will “Check which famous writer you write like with this statistical analysis tool, which analyzes your word choice and writing style and compares them with those of the famous writers.” I did this with three different samples of blog posts and found this:
Pretty excited about the first two, wasn’t sure who the last guy was, but when I looked him up I wasn’t complaining. Give it a try yourself!
It’s taken about an hour, and a long shower, but I am just getting over being mortified. Absolutely MORTIFIED.
I worked late, took my bi-monthly trip to Trader Joe’s, and was looking forward to getting home to clean up the pigsty that is my apartment. I go through these random moody times a few times a year, during which I struggle to maintain a hygienic appearance and a livable abode. To other pairs of eyes it may just look a bit cluttered and disorganized, but in my current state of mind it looks like a clan of meth heads squatted here all month along with a group of chimpanzees and those kids from Lord of the Flies.
So the first thing I do when I get home to my shelter of neglect and shame is take off my pants and pick some things up while I heat up some delicious frozen enchiladas I impulse-bought at Joe’s (grocery shopping while hungry people). I do not like wearing clothes if I don’t have to. There’s no point when you’re home alone and it’s hot. I’m spending the night in which means it’s time for some Breaking Bad, so I’m all set with a TV dinner, a margarita on the rocks, and entertainment with my two cats that bravely ventured out into the clutter for some love (yeah, didn’t spend that much time “picking up”).
You think that the “No pants” issue would be the biggest problem to deal with when someone suddenly knocks on my front door and says “Knock Knock! It’s your neighbor!”
Oh no. Oh no no no no no.
See, at this point, I wasn’t still eating and watching Breaking Bad which would have been totally socially acceptable. Yeah, I wasn’t wearing pants and the curtain that “covers” my french door is a bit see-through to do the job, but at least it would have looked like I was doing something appropriate and non-creepish.
You see, as my neighbor knocked on my door and most likely saw me sitting watching something on my laptop with no pants on, I was watching the guilty-pleasure otherwise known as True Blood and putting lotion on my thighs.
If you’ve lived under a rock for the past six years you wouldn’t know that True Blood is full of explicit sex scenes that sometimes come at the most inopportune, awkward moments, especially if you have the sound way up in order to hear the sexy-voiced Eric Northman croon to Sookie and make-believe he’s actually speaking softly to you, just you…
You see where this is going? If you don’t, just leave. Leave now and spare yourself.
“Uhhhhhhhh” <hurriedly slaps the laptop closed> “Be right there!”
I pull my t-shirt over my bum and scamper to my bedroom to pull on the jeans I wore today. I walk calmly to the door and am presented with some steelhead fillet, just removed from the smoker. Forgetting I was a vegetarian (I don’t care about this part in the least) my kind-hearted landlord came all the way downstairs to share some with me! It is presented, still warm, on a paper plate while I thank him for the fish, kindly remind him that I don’t eat meat, but that I’ll make an exception just this once!
He grins and walks away, “Sorry to interrupt!”
I cringe while I feed the fish to my cats. I’m sure it was delicious fish, but the rich smell made my stomach turn while I agonized over the idea of my landlord thinking he caught me masterbating to porn. How will I ever look this guy, or his family, in the eyes again? Seriously? Of all the times to be sitting in my underwear, putting lotion on a sunburn in a place that is usually considered sex-ish, and watching an explicit sex scene making very loud explicit sex noises? Hey Universe, THANKS. I immediately took a shower and decided it was time for bed, safe and unseen in my bedroom where I can hang my head in shame.