I recently read How Did You Get This Number by Sloane Crosley (Or, as I said in my head each time I read it, Sloane Crosby).
I’m not entirely sure where I found it, but I quite enjoyed it:
Mom eyed me suspiciously for days, morphing into a one-woman Scotland Yard, marching into my bedroom with a fistful of lint from the dryer to demonstrate that I had mysteriously washed all the towels
The mundaneness of this made me chuckle, along with the lack of motive. There’s nowhere for her mum to come with the evidence once she’s gathered it.
Another thing about having the village idiot camped out in half your brain is that the other half is forced into some resourceful public-relations work. At school, if someone asked me what time it was, the better-brain half would put its hand over the lesser half’s mouth, and I’d say my watch was broken.
There’s a nice bit of personalising the brain here, but the pay off at the end is good too.
I was going through a phase where I felt uncomfortable when people could hear me going to the bathroom. I’m still going through it, really.
I love the misuse of the word “phase” here. It sets it up well in the first sentence before undermining it.
It was a gateway carpet.
Out of context this doesn’t make much use, but the switching of “drug” for “carpet” here really made me chuckle.