Things I Should Know How to Do but Don’t Because I’m an Amnesic Alien From a Distant Planet

Sometimes I wonder if I am an alien sent to earth to study humanity, and I’m just doing an absolute shit job of it.

Maybe my star hopping vessel had a crash landing, and I whapped my oversized grey-skinned cranium on the space-aged dashboard just before landing and got amnesia — which is why I can’t remember my extraterrestrial heritage.

The more I write this hypothesis out, the most likely scenario it becomes in my mind.

Lindso, the alien explorer, seeking refuge on an increasingly hostile planet where against all odds, she still finds stupid stuff to laugh about.

It just sounds right, man.

The main reason I believe this tall tale is because, at 36 years old, I still don’t know how to do a plethora of seemingly simple human tasks.

Things like:

Drive myself to get an oil change.

I just straight up refuse to do it, and I have an excellent explanation for that.

I am afraid I will drive directly into the hole.

Like, you know, the hole in the mechanic shop floor where the mechanics stand while working on the undercarriage of your vehicle. I am 100% positive that I will drive my car right into that sucker, and that would be the most giant whoopsie daisy there ever was or ever will be.

So no thank you, I will not be taking that risk today or any other day.

Instead, I park my car in front of the bay, walk into the office and kindly ask the person at the desk to drive MY car into the mechanic bay.

“Believe me,” I’ll say while they look at me quizzically, “this will be a lot better for all involved. Pre-emptive thinking! That’s the name of the game, my friend!”

Purchase a coffee from the gas station.

I’m working on being brave in unknown situations, and those acts of bravery can be as tiny as purchasing a coffee. So yesterday, I decided to do just that. As I was filling up the gas tank, it occurred to me that I had forgotten to grab a coffee before leaving the house. I decided I would get one at the gas station.

I’ve heard through the grapevine that gas station coffee has come a long way since my day of one crusty craft of ten hour old java sitting at the cash register while flies nest atop the thing.

Now it seems, that there is an endless variety of options when looking for an on-the-go coffee while gassing up.

As I looked at the wall of cappuccino, cold brew, hot chocolate, latte and espresso machines, I couldn’t figure out which one I might begin to randomly push buttons on to get a simple black coffee.

There were exactly zero machines that said “coffee”.

And because I’d rather drag my bottom teeth along a chalkboard encased dick (terrible for all parties involved, I’d imagine) than ask another human being for help, I decided I’d figure my coffee dilemma out on my own.

I considered the “cold brew” option, and reckoned that, combined with the side nozzle on the machine which stated: “hot water,” seemed to be my best bet for a regular black coffee.

My brain is an absolute wonder sometimes.

I refrained from filling my cup with ice as recommended on the little instruction manual that was parked on the counter, and instead placed my coffee cup under the nozzle and began to fill.

It served me roughly one fluid ounce of black gold. I then tried to activate the hot water nozzle, which obviously decided at that exact moment to stop working.

So instead, I filled the remaining cup up with another shot of lukewarm black coffee and the rest of the cup with French Vanilla creamer. The creamer was delicious. I couldn’t taste the coffee.

And yes, I did acquire quite the tummy ache after consuming such a monstrosity.

It’s safe to say I will never go back to that gas station again.

Learn my lefts and rights.

Last week when I was out for a walk with Lucy, a small child approached on a bike behind me and yelled, “On your right!” while dinging their little bell aggressively.

In times of calm and relaxation, I can tell my lefts from my rights, you guys.

But, in an emergency, things have a tendency to get a bit dodgy.

I immediately got flustered because was the person riding behind me saying “on your right” because they are on MY right, meaning I should veer left to let them pass more easily. Or are they demanding that I stay right? ON YOUR RIGHT, YOU NO GOOD WORM FECES, I hear a drill sergeant scream in my inner consciousness. If I were to go with my first instinct and move left, they would ride directly into me, and we both could potentially get some pretty nasty injuries.

But why would anyone tell the person to stay right in that manner? If they wanted me to keep right, they’d just say, “keep right,” right? So, in the end, I figured they were telling me they were coming up on my right to pass.

And that’s precisely when I forgot which side was my right side.

So I did what any elementary school child might do when asked a question regarding their lefts and rights — I stuck my hands out in front of me. I made an L shape with both pointers and thumbs. And I studied these two visuals very carefully to see which hand made the proper facing L.

That’s the left hand.

*Insert smug-face emoji here*

I moved in the appropriate direction and am happy to report that there was no collision on the path that day.

Sometimes it’s difficult being a brain-damaged alien in a human skin suit trapped on a far-away planet of strange beings. Especially when those beings seem to focus an undue amount of energy fighting one another in the comment section of popular online forums when in reality, their world is hanging on by a cosmic thread, so they probably should have bigger fish to fry right about now.

But hey, who am I to judge.

I’m just a coffee-less alien who doesn’t know how to drive good and can’t remember shit. Don’t mind me, I’m just trying to survive over here.

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This post was previously published on it’s just foam.

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