I am always thinking such horrible things, but I seem so calm on the outside that no one ever knows!
At the risk of sounding crazy, I’m going to go ahead and say that I have achieved a level of calm exterior/ stormy interior that tends to be reserved for killers and psychotics. The only difference is, I don’t have murderous or psychotic tendencies.
I’m the little psycho that has yet to!
But the thing is, I hide it so well that I don’t ever get to reap the benefits of having people be afraid of me. What’s the sense in cultivating a violent internal tempest if no one gets to see? Thinking terrible things all the time with no enjoyable outlet is not good for you – it can really get you down after a while.
Sometimes I try to bait people but it never comes across the way I want it to. Maybe I’m in conversation with someone and I casually let it drop that I “really flipped out” on this person and how much I “really hate and want to kill” such and such.
“Oh I could never see you doing that,” acquaintances will tell me. “You’re such a calm person.”
“Sometimes I blow.” I say, as ominous as I can manage while still remaining nonchalant.
It never works. People never seem to really look into my eyes and fear me. Acquaintances view me as too calm and friends have deemed me harmless. Which is what I am.
Or what I have been. Until now.
Somehow I have to get it across that I am a dangerous psycho but am, at the same time, still a cool person to be around. So that people will be happy to see me, but when they imagine what goes on inside my head, all they will get are images like the previews for the movie Saw.
Maybe the next time I am watching TV with friends and a trailer for some disturbing horror movie comes on I should just say “that’s how I feel inside,” or “that’s like something I was thinking of doing.” The trick is to not be heavy-handed about it, but to do it in a way that is just very spontaneous - as though I got a kick out of the fact that the terrible things I just saw reminded me of my own thoughts and I felt the passing urge to comment on it.
Real casual!
Then, slowly I will build a group, or “legion,” of fear-friends, or “cult members,” which are the sweetest members indeed! Always turning out in large numbers, laughing at my jokes, and willing to do my bidding, whatever that may be, as long as I ask calmly, like it’s the simplest, clearest thing in the world.
I have always had a pretty strong urge to touch my tongue to things that are filthy and disgusting – things like toilets and tires. Not after they’ve been used, obviously. Right after they’ve been manufactured. While they’re still clean.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have some kind of oral fixation. In fact, I tend to do what I can to keep things out of my mouth. I see people putting pens and fingernails in their mouths and I start to dwell on particles and, well, you can imagine where that gets me. Suffice it to say I’m pretty discriminating about what goes in my mouth.
So I guess if you’re looking to apply some kind of fixation to me, it would involve cleanliness. I don’t know what the technical term for a cleanliness fixation is. But then again, I don’t think I need to label it because it doesn’t consume me. I just think about it always.
In any case, when I see something like a new toilet, it occurs to me that very soon that toilet will be just like any other toilet, but right now it’s clean, it’s new, it has never been gone to the bathroom in. It is a virgin toilet.
And if you wanted to, you could touch your tongue to a virgin toilet. Sure, you can’t be 100% sure that a toilet in a store hasn’t been used before, but you can be pretty sure. The only way I can see that happening realistically is if you are the person who sells the toilets and you use it maybe just once to “take her for a spin,” you know, get to know the product you’re selling. See how it differs from the other models. And then maybe once you’ve done that you clean it up and put it out on the showroom floor, because what do you need with an extra toilet? But I really don’t think they do that. A toilet isn’t something you can just hook up and take down. It involves pipes.
Now, maybe the reasons for wanting to do something like that are not immediately evident, but you could. If you had your own reasons.
And if you do have your own reasons for wanting to do something like that, you probably shouldn’t explain them to other people. Everybody has their own strange ways of thinking but they tend to lose sight of their own eccentricities when you tell them things like how you always dreamed of touching your tongue to a virgin toilet. It’s just not what they were expecting you to say.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have some kind of oral fixation. In fact, I tend to do what I can to keep things out of my mouth. I see people putting pens and fingernails in their mouths and I start to dwell on particles and, well, you can imagine where that gets me. Suffice it to say I’m pretty discriminating about what goes in my mouth.
So I guess if you’re looking to apply some kind of fixation to me, it would involve cleanliness. I don’t know what the technical term for a cleanliness fixation is. But then again, I don’t think I need to label it because it doesn’t consume me. I just think about it always.
In any case, when I see something like a new toilet, it occurs to me that very soon that toilet will be just like any other toilet, but right now it’s clean, it’s new, it has never been gone to the bathroom in. It is a virgin toilet.
And if you wanted to, you could touch your tongue to a virgin toilet. Sure, you can’t be 100% sure that a toilet in a store hasn’t been used before, but you can be pretty sure. The only way I can see that happening realistically is if you are the person who sells the toilets and you use it maybe just once to “take her for a spin,” you know, get to know the product you’re selling. See how it differs from the other models. And then maybe once you’ve done that you clean it up and put it out on the showroom floor, because what do you need with an extra toilet? But I really don’t think they do that. A toilet isn’t something you can just hook up and take down. It involves pipes.
Now, maybe the reasons for wanting to do something like that are not immediately evident, but you could. If you had your own reasons.
And if you do have your own reasons for wanting to do something like that, you probably shouldn’t explain them to other people. Everybody has their own strange ways of thinking but they tend to lose sight of their own eccentricities when you tell them things like how you always dreamed of touching your tongue to a virgin toilet. It’s just not what they were expecting you to say.
You know what I’m talking about. You better. It happens all the time. The topic of pets will come up and some funny person will talk about how all their cat does is “type all day” and that they “think he’s writing a book.”
What a barrel of laughs!
Oftentimes they have a pre-planned nom de plume for their cat like William Shakesparkles or JK Growling (although that is really a more appropriate name for a dog or a tiger). And as soon as they say it someone who’s listening will repeat it as if reflectively, at which point they will pronounce “oh, that’s funny” even though it’s clearly not and no one’s laughing. It kind of makes me sad to think that someone has a pre-planned nom de plume for their cat. Top ten signs you’re totally lame, you know?
While we’re on the topic of cat jokes – I have another. “Oh, your cat’s writing a book, is he? Well mine’s running for president!” (you see, it operates on the same comic principle – things cats can’t do – but my joke is funnier because a cat could write a book if it somehow typed out words that made sense enough to create a story, but a cat simply can’t run for president – there are restrictions!)
Now, it’s entirely possible that this is not at all a common occurrence and that for some reason I attract a very specific type of moron, and so I have had to endure this experience time after time while the greater part of society has never known it. My luck, that’s probably the exact situation, and you have just read this feeling left out and insulted (because maybe you have some pre-planned names for your cat for other reasons). If that is the case, then consider me unlucky and try not to hold it against me. Furthermore, if you think the cat-as-novelist concept is just about the funniest thing you’ve heard all week, and you’re just dying to try it out on someone, odds are I am about to walk through the door.
I wish I could say I’ll be completely rude if that happens. But I don’t think so. Knowing me, I will probably smile while I picture doing terrible things to the remains of your corpse. I will probably smile, though.
Politely.
I always feel like such a sucker when I’m by myself, I burp, and I say “excuse me.” Who am I saying excuse me to? God? Overhearing passers by?
Yes. Well, more God. I’m saying it more to God. Totally to God, actually. Forget passers-by. There is more at stake than the opinions of strangers.
I must have burped a lot as a kid because one day my mom told me I should say excuse me after I burp, and my life since then has been punctuated by an endless thread of excuse me's, each one the snowy cap in a mountain range extending forever in both directions. It is my Hail Mary, and I am nonstop blasphemy.
I guess that’s why God got involved in the first place – nothing says God more than repetition and ritual, and when you’re saying “excuse me” 20 times a day because you’re a kid and you love to burp, it begins to take the quality of a prayer after a very short while.
My mother might have been attempting to make me more cognizant of socially inappropriate behavior, but I took it as a free pass to burp anytime, anywhere, because as long as you said “excuse me,” you were in the clear – the burp was annulled, it never happened – much the same effect repentance and communion have on sins. Covet my neighbor’s wife? Sorry God! Now to indulge in some long-awaited wrath!
And then one day when I was very young (I don’t remember when, the actual event is lost to me, although I acknowledge that it must have originated somewhere as all things have “origins”), I burped by myself.
There was no one around. Just me.
Do I say “excuse me” when there is no one but me?
No! Of course no. That would be a stupid thing to do when it’s just you. You don’t say excuse me to an empty room. There’s no one around to hear you.
Unless…
Did…God…hear me burp? And if so, should I not say… excuse me? To God?
Yeah. I should. Of course I should! Why, it might be that this excuse me rule has been handed down from God himself! Herself! Itself! Why don’t they ever mention it in church? You know – the possibility.
But wait. If I’m excusing myself to God, do I have to speak it out loud, or is it enough to think it? No. Thinking is like cheating. I know it and God knows it. I have to say it out loud.
But what if it is just a soft burp and there are people around, but no one heard me burp? I wouldn’t have to excuse myself to them, but I probably should still excuse myself to God, because he/she/it heard me even if no one in the room did. And won’t it seem odd if I am saying excuse me out loud for no apparent reason?
Say it under your breath. But you must use your voice or it doesn’t count and you will have burped in the face of God, unexcused. Say it. Say it as softly as you can. For the sake of your soul, say it!
So you can probably imagine from that point on, I said “excuse me” at the slightest gastrointestinal disruption. Whether it was an all out BRAP, a muffled and burny upp, a false start no-burp (but you still made as if to burp, now didn’t you?), or merely a stomach bubble that I thought might head north, I said “excuse me.” Softly, devoutly, and with gravity. God wants to hear it. Hear it out loud.
Why? I don’t know! The burp-commandment and the almighty logic behind it are not addressed anywhere in the Bible! Not that I have ever read it! I’m just assuming! It’s an everlasting holy mystery!
Twenty-some years later and I’m still muttering “excuse me” under my breath. Sure, I’m old enough to understand that God probably does not give a shit one way or the other about burps but I can’t help it. (I’m not going to address the issue of God’s existence or nonexistence – I say excuse me directly to God multiple times per day, I’m too tired to deal with that question!) When I’m alone and I burp, everything just feels unfinished and dangerously reckless until I mend the situation by appeasing God with the magic words. What? Simple.
And who knows? Maybe when I’m awaiting admittance into Heaven, they will regard all the times I said “excuse me” as a sort of extra-credit – misguided in that God doesn’t care, but admissible in the sense that all the times I said it, the tens of thousands of times I have said it, each instance was, in itself, a cosmic apology, an appeal to the highest source, asking over and over to be excused in the earnest hope that somewhere, some consciousness was taking note.
Yes. Well, more God. I’m saying it more to God. Totally to God, actually. Forget passers-by. There is more at stake than the opinions of strangers.
I must have burped a lot as a kid because one day my mom told me I should say excuse me after I burp, and my life since then has been punctuated by an endless thread of excuse me's, each one the snowy cap in a mountain range extending forever in both directions. It is my Hail Mary, and I am nonstop blasphemy.
I guess that’s why God got involved in the first place – nothing says God more than repetition and ritual, and when you’re saying “excuse me” 20 times a day because you’re a kid and you love to burp, it begins to take the quality of a prayer after a very short while.
My mother might have been attempting to make me more cognizant of socially inappropriate behavior, but I took it as a free pass to burp anytime, anywhere, because as long as you said “excuse me,” you were in the clear – the burp was annulled, it never happened – much the same effect repentance and communion have on sins. Covet my neighbor’s wife? Sorry God! Now to indulge in some long-awaited wrath!
And then one day when I was very young (I don’t remember when, the actual event is lost to me, although I acknowledge that it must have originated somewhere as all things have “origins”), I burped by myself.
There was no one around. Just me.
Do I say “excuse me” when there is no one but me?
No! Of course no. That would be a stupid thing to do when it’s just you. You don’t say excuse me to an empty room. There’s no one around to hear you.
Unless…
Did…God…hear me burp? And if so, should I not say… excuse me? To God?
Yeah. I should. Of course I should! Why, it might be that this excuse me rule has been handed down from God himself! Herself! Itself! Why don’t they ever mention it in church? You know – the possibility.
But wait. If I’m excusing myself to God, do I have to speak it out loud, or is it enough to think it? No. Thinking is like cheating. I know it and God knows it. I have to say it out loud.
But what if it is just a soft burp and there are people around, but no one heard me burp? I wouldn’t have to excuse myself to them, but I probably should still excuse myself to God, because he/she/it heard me even if no one in the room did. And won’t it seem odd if I am saying excuse me out loud for no apparent reason?
Say it under your breath. But you must use your voice or it doesn’t count and you will have burped in the face of God, unexcused. Say it. Say it as softly as you can. For the sake of your soul, say it!
So you can probably imagine from that point on, I said “excuse me” at the slightest gastrointestinal disruption. Whether it was an all out BRAP, a muffled and burny upp, a false start no-burp (but you still made as if to burp, now didn’t you?), or merely a stomach bubble that I thought might head north, I said “excuse me.” Softly, devoutly, and with gravity. God wants to hear it. Hear it out loud.
Why? I don’t know! The burp-commandment and the almighty logic behind it are not addressed anywhere in the Bible! Not that I have ever read it! I’m just assuming! It’s an everlasting holy mystery!
Twenty-some years later and I’m still muttering “excuse me” under my breath. Sure, I’m old enough to understand that God probably does not give a shit one way or the other about burps but I can’t help it. (I’m not going to address the issue of God’s existence or nonexistence – I say excuse me directly to God multiple times per day, I’m too tired to deal with that question!) When I’m alone and I burp, everything just feels unfinished and dangerously reckless until I mend the situation by appeasing God with the magic words. What? Simple.
And who knows? Maybe when I’m awaiting admittance into Heaven, they will regard all the times I said “excuse me” as a sort of extra-credit – misguided in that God doesn’t care, but admissible in the sense that all the times I said it, the tens of thousands of times I have said it, each instance was, in itself, a cosmic apology, an appeal to the highest source, asking over and over to be excused in the earnest hope that somewhere, some consciousness was taking note.
Which one of my roommates is responsible for this?
And why does it smell like underpants?
I'm going to wash my hands.
With fire.
“You want to go to the diner?”
“That trendy one?”
“Yeah, I want to get an avocado tuna melt.”
“Sure, I’ll go.”
“How about you?”
“No.”
“Come on.”
“No, I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know, I just can’t.”
“That’s lame.”
“Yeah, seriously, just come with us.”
“I told you, I can’t. I would like to but I’m not going to, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Are you guys coming back afterward?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, great, I’ll see you then.”
“Okay.”
“Later.”
“Hey guys?”
“What?”
“Can you do me a favor while you’re at the diner?”
“What?”
“If I tell you what food I want, will you order me the food, like a little after you’ve gotten there, order it to-go and bring it back with you when you’re done?”
“What?”
“I suggest you order the food when the server brings you your meal so that it is just ready when it’s time for you to leave.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Actually I think you have to order it then. It’ll be freshest that way, I think.”
“We’re not bringing your food back, idiot.”
“What? Why not?”
“Because you can come with us. That is a pain and I’m not doing it.”
“What?”
“Yes.”
“You really won’t?”
“No.”
“That’s unbelievable.”
“Good bye.”
“How about you? Will you do it?”
“I’m not going to play the nice guy.”
“But you’ll do it because you know it’s not an unreasonable thing to ask?”
“It is a pain, actually.”
“It is not and you know it. Just be sure and wait until she brings you your food before you place the order.”
“See, that’s annoying.”
“And don’t tilt it when they put it in a bag. The food comes in a circular tray and when you put that in a plastic bag and hold the bag by the handles, it naturally sits on its side rather than on its bottom. And when that happens, the food gets all screwed up. So what you should do is carry the tray in the bag flat – carry it by the tray – don’t use the bag handles.”
“I can’t believe you’re listening to him.”
“What? No one wants to eat screwed up food.”
“I’ll do it if you give me two dollars.”
“Forget it!”
“It’s the tip, isn’t it? You would happily inconvenience us, just to avoid paying for delivery.”
“That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard!”
“Then tip me.”
“You don’t tip friends!”
“3 dollars.”
“Look at yourself. You’re disgusting.”
“Can we go?”
“I can’t believe you guys are really not going to do this for me. All jokes aside, you should just do it. I would do it for you.”
“Shut up.”
“Really. You’re my friends and I want to make you happy. I would hope you would feel the same way about me, and honestly, I’m a little sad about what’s going on here. This is honestly making me sad.”
“Whatever no-chance you might have not-had is completely gone now.”
“Do it!”
“Why can’t you come?”
“I told you, I can’t!”
“But you never gave us a reason.”
“Yes I did.”
“No.”
“The reason is that I have something I just thought of.”
“Which is?”
“No, no, it has a lot of back-story. I don’t want to get into it.”
“Good bye.”
“It would take too long!”
“You are too lazy to go out and you just want food.”
“Listen, I…I think I’m dying, okay? I didn’t want to say it but it’s curtains for me.”
“Good bye.”
“See ya.”
“I’m serious, I’m dying and I’m hungry but it’s…it’s so cold outside and I’m becoming ever more fragile.”
“Not listening.”
“Bye.”
“Why doesn't anyone ever believe me when I tell them I'm dying? I know there must be something wrong with the way I address it with people, but I can’t figure out what it is. It’s a lonely thing to be dying, and then to have no one believe you, well, that's even worse, but when they won't bring you food? It's terrible when they won't bring you food. It's very hungry and very lonely. And so, so cold.”
“That trendy one?”
“Yeah, I want to get an avocado tuna melt.”
“Sure, I’ll go.”
“How about you?”
“No.”
“Come on.”
“No, I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know, I just can’t.”
“That’s lame.”
“Yeah, seriously, just come with us.”
“I told you, I can’t. I would like to but I’m not going to, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Are you guys coming back afterward?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, great, I’ll see you then.”
“Okay.”
“Later.”
“Hey guys?”
“What?”
“Can you do me a favor while you’re at the diner?”
“What?”
“If I tell you what food I want, will you order me the food, like a little after you’ve gotten there, order it to-go and bring it back with you when you’re done?”
“What?”
“I suggest you order the food when the server brings you your meal so that it is just ready when it’s time for you to leave.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Actually I think you have to order it then. It’ll be freshest that way, I think.”
“We’re not bringing your food back, idiot.”
“What? Why not?”
“Because you can come with us. That is a pain and I’m not doing it.”
“What?”
“Yes.”
“You really won’t?”
“No.”
“That’s unbelievable.”
“Good bye.”
“How about you? Will you do it?”
“I’m not going to play the nice guy.”
“But you’ll do it because you know it’s not an unreasonable thing to ask?”
“It is a pain, actually.”
“It is not and you know it. Just be sure and wait until she brings you your food before you place the order.”
“See, that’s annoying.”
“And don’t tilt it when they put it in a bag. The food comes in a circular tray and when you put that in a plastic bag and hold the bag by the handles, it naturally sits on its side rather than on its bottom. And when that happens, the food gets all screwed up. So what you should do is carry the tray in the bag flat – carry it by the tray – don’t use the bag handles.”
“I can’t believe you’re listening to him.”
“What? No one wants to eat screwed up food.”
“I’ll do it if you give me two dollars.”
“Forget it!”
“It’s the tip, isn’t it? You would happily inconvenience us, just to avoid paying for delivery.”
“That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard!”
“Then tip me.”
“You don’t tip friends!”
“3 dollars.”
“Look at yourself. You’re disgusting.”
“Can we go?”
“I can’t believe you guys are really not going to do this for me. All jokes aside, you should just do it. I would do it for you.”
“Shut up.”
“Really. You’re my friends and I want to make you happy. I would hope you would feel the same way about me, and honestly, I’m a little sad about what’s going on here. This is honestly making me sad.”
“Whatever no-chance you might have not-had is completely gone now.”
“Do it!”
“Why can’t you come?”
“I told you, I can’t!”
“But you never gave us a reason.”
“Yes I did.”
“No.”
“The reason is that I have something I just thought of.”
“Which is?”
“No, no, it has a lot of back-story. I don’t want to get into it.”
“Good bye.”
“It would take too long!”
“You are too lazy to go out and you just want food.”
“Listen, I…I think I’m dying, okay? I didn’t want to say it but it’s curtains for me.”
“Good bye.”
“See ya.”
“I’m serious, I’m dying and I’m hungry but it’s…it’s so cold outside and I’m becoming ever more fragile.”
“Not listening.”
“Bye.”
“Why doesn't anyone ever believe me when I tell them I'm dying? I know there must be something wrong with the way I address it with people, but I can’t figure out what it is. It’s a lonely thing to be dying, and then to have no one believe you, well, that's even worse, but when they won't bring you food? It's terrible when they won't bring you food. It's very hungry and very lonely. And so, so cold.”
It is at this point where I begin to wonder why someone would buy a chocolate shoe and for whom? I mean, it's obvious that a caring pimp might get it for his girls as a way of saying "you're all right, girls." Or something. I don't know how pimps talk. (I don't run in those crowds.)
I have no idea who else you could possibly buy it for.
Well, I suppose if you had a friend who was doing a drag show, you might get it for her as an opening night gift. Or if you knew someone who had a particular liking for shoes.
Hey wait. All girls like shoes. And chocolate. All girls like shoes and chocolate.
Just a second ago I was laughing at the chocolate shoe, but now I see it for the stroke of genius it truly is. Of course! Isn't it always that way? When they first put phones in cameras, didn't we laugh at the luxury of it? And now look at us! Only idiots don't have camera phones! You need it to survive!
What self-respecting girl could resist a chocolate shoe? None! And Valentine's Day is coming up! Well, I won't be alone this year! I won't be alone anymore! Sadly, hopelessly alone, no way, not for me! I will keep the abyss at arm's length this year! I'll get me a chocolate shoe and go girl-fishing!
"Excuse me."
"Yes?"
"If you agree to be my Valentine's date, I will give you this chocolate shoe." (Here is where I unveil the shoe.) "You see, Marc Jacobs is selling chocolate shoes and I thought I would pick you one up." (I will lie and say it's shoe-designer chocolate. If they look for the label I will just distract them by changing the subject.)
"Well I do like shoes..."
"And let me guess: chocolate too." (I imagine she will blush here and maybe giggle, but I'm not going to let it throw me if she doesn't.)
And if she asks, "What were you doing shopping for women's shoes in Marc Jacobs?"
I will say, "Oh...nothing." (And here is where I will get a sly look on my face as if to say, maybe I was buying shoes for you - my lucky girl!)
How could I possibly lose?!
If there is one thing I will never understand it is why mermaids are supposed to be sexy. No, I guess that’s not what I want to say. I am well aware that almost nobody actually thinks the idea of mermaids is particularly sexy, and that they came about because men alone at sea wanted desperately to see a woman, and the only way they could possibly imagine seeing one is if they were part fish. So one day someone hallucinated and the rumors spread like wildfire. I mean, I guess. I really don’t know. It’s all speculation. I suppose I could look it up, but the greater part of me doesn’t care. So I guess what I mean to say is I will never understand why most people don’t think mermaids are revoltingly disgusting, a perversion of nature so mismatched that to seriously consider being confronted with it should send even the strongest stomach heaving in protest.
Take the movie Splash, for instance. Now, I only saw it once, and I didn’t really pay attention, but that is not what is at issue. One scene I did remember was the one where Tom Hanks walks in on Darryl Hannah to discover that she is a mermaid.
For real, if you walked in on your girlfriend in the bathroom and half of her was a fish, what would you do?
I would throw up right there. In addition to being unspeakably hideous, she would also smell like a fish. That’s something they don’t dwell on in the movie or in mermaid lore. I mean, it stands to reason because she is one. And you think a little fish smells bad? Try a 120 pound fish.
Now, I'm not going to get into detail about what a mermaid's sex organs would be like, but considering the scales start at the equator, I don't think we can fool ourselves into thinking they're human. That's where caviar comes from.
And don’t think for a second that you would walk in on your fishy little girlfriend sitting still looking up at you abashed, her glistening tail curling up and down in a slow motion. Oh no. That is by no means an accurate portrayal of the scene. I ask you, what happens to a fish out of water? Does it lounge on the riverbank and look at you with pouty eyes? Your girlfriend would be a hideous flopping spasm. You wouldn’t just happen upon her, you would rush into the bathroom because it would sound like your girlfriend was being gruesomely murdered. And then you bash down the door, ready to fight to the death if needs be when you see the most horrifying sight of your life: The bathroom is completely destroyed and your girlfriend appears to be battling with some kind of alligator. In a split second you realize it is not an alligator. For the next second you pause, thoroughly perplexed, and then comes the third second where you think no, oh my sweet lord in heaven, this cannot be, oh please no, she is not, this is not, it smells so– and a moment later your own panicked thoughts are drowned out by your heaving and retching.
In fact, in all likelihood, your wondrous mermaid would be a bloody catastrophe, having cracked her skull repeatedly on what was left of the tub, let alone the fragments of glass that are certain to abound in such a situation. Fish can take it – their scales are thick, Her bottom half would probably inflict far greater damage than it would receive. But people skin is of a far different ilk.
So, you would most likely open the door to your dead mermaid girlfriend. All the flopping by this point is just her nerve cells spasming their last bit of juice away, while you are trying to come to comprehend it all amidst getting splattered with various forms of organic matter.
I think of this every time someone says “mermaid.” I don’t see how you can’t, when you really think about it.
Take the movie Splash, for instance. Now, I only saw it once, and I didn’t really pay attention, but that is not what is at issue. One scene I did remember was the one where Tom Hanks walks in on Darryl Hannah to discover that she is a mermaid.
For real, if you walked in on your girlfriend in the bathroom and half of her was a fish, what would you do?
I would throw up right there. In addition to being unspeakably hideous, she would also smell like a fish. That’s something they don’t dwell on in the movie or in mermaid lore. I mean, it stands to reason because she is one. And you think a little fish smells bad? Try a 120 pound fish.
Now, I'm not going to get into detail about what a mermaid's sex organs would be like, but considering the scales start at the equator, I don't think we can fool ourselves into thinking they're human. That's where caviar comes from.
And don’t think for a second that you would walk in on your fishy little girlfriend sitting still looking up at you abashed, her glistening tail curling up and down in a slow motion. Oh no. That is by no means an accurate portrayal of the scene. I ask you, what happens to a fish out of water? Does it lounge on the riverbank and look at you with pouty eyes? Your girlfriend would be a hideous flopping spasm. You wouldn’t just happen upon her, you would rush into the bathroom because it would sound like your girlfriend was being gruesomely murdered. And then you bash down the door, ready to fight to the death if needs be when you see the most horrifying sight of your life: The bathroom is completely destroyed and your girlfriend appears to be battling with some kind of alligator. In a split second you realize it is not an alligator. For the next second you pause, thoroughly perplexed, and then comes the third second where you think no, oh my sweet lord in heaven, this cannot be, oh please no, she is not, this is not, it smells so– and a moment later your own panicked thoughts are drowned out by your heaving and retching.
In fact, in all likelihood, your wondrous mermaid would be a bloody catastrophe, having cracked her skull repeatedly on what was left of the tub, let alone the fragments of glass that are certain to abound in such a situation. Fish can take it – their scales are thick, Her bottom half would probably inflict far greater damage than it would receive. But people skin is of a far different ilk.
So, you would most likely open the door to your dead mermaid girlfriend. All the flopping by this point is just her nerve cells spasming their last bit of juice away, while you are trying to come to comprehend it all amidst getting splattered with various forms of organic matter.
I think of this every time someone says “mermaid.” I don’t see how you can’t, when you really think about it.
The Sad Smile of the Young, White, Suburban Urbanite
3 Comments Published by Yeager on 1.21.2005 at 9:46 AM.
Why is it so hard for polite young white guys to be as nasty as everyone else? Maybe it is because I’m young and polite and white, but I feel like I always see some kind of minor public misunderstanding – let’s say maybe someone accidentally cut in line, and the young white guy will say, in a voice so quiet it can only be measured by the most sensitive audio equipment, “excuse…hhh…line,” as he smiles the homespun grin of an aw-shucks dipshit - hoping, praying that the person won’t haul off and hit him for his disrespect.
No reaction from the line cutter because his comment was technically too soft for the human ear to detect. He has, however, attracted the attention of a nearby dog, who either doesn’t understand English, or doesn’t care that he has cut in front of such a simpering little pipsqueak.
“Excuse me, I’m actually in line,” a few decibels louder now, enough so that he could at least make himself out. Problem is that while he was mustering the courage to speak audibly, the person in front of him has become quite comfortable in their position in line, so they don’t pay any attention to him.
Now he does one of two things. The first and most comfortable option is to just do nothing. He will glance around awkward, determine that no one has seen his attempt at asserting his existence, (or, if they have, that the resulting embarrassment doesn’t tip the scale against the potential trauma implied in a public dispute), and he will simply come to a stop as the red in his cheeks springs into full bloom. Perhaps he will check his iPod or push some buttons on his cell phone in a feeble attempt to appear casual and absentminded, thinking all the while ‘I should have just spoken up. Why don’t I speak when I speak?!’
If, however, he is feeling bold, he will very lightly and tentatively touch the offending party on the shoulder. “Excuse me, I’m sorry but I was actually waiting in line.” With the sudden increase in volume his voice has jumped an octave. And now his smile expands, stretching his face out on the sides so that his mouth at once appears too wide for his head and too sad to be a smile. Behind that smile he is withering, as though the very act of smiling required self-confidence as its fuel to remain present, and it’s burning through it fast, so fast that he can’t possibly keep the smile going for more than a few seconds longer without breaking down into sobs. Some kindergartners at the corner begin to consider shaking him down for his lunch money.
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize.” At which point the person moves behind him.
“Oh, no problem, it’s don’t worry, okay!” The obvious giddy relief has sent his voice sky high, so that he almost appears to be singing in falsetto.
And if they should resist? Try to pick a fight? Maybe they didn’t see him waiting when they got in line and they’re not about to move. He either will shut down completely or he will get shaky and cry-mad, and there is no limit to the combination of childish insults he might pile into one fed-up and poorly executed comeback. He might proclaim that “this is crap” or “bullshit,” and call the person a “jerk,” or, if he is too worked up to be cognizant, he will say “fuck” or “bitch.” And then, boy is he in for it. Because he has no place slinging words like that around. He simply doesn’t have the composure to stand up strong.
But you can bet that when he tells people about it later, that he uses his real voice when reenacting himself. Odds are he’ll make himself seem cool.
If you get the sense that the reason I have such a detailed knowledge of the psyche of the young, white, please-eager pussy is because I am one, well… what can I say? I clearly am. But I witness it as much as I am it, and I think the whole thing needs to change. We all need to get as fuck-mouthed as the rest of the world, and if that means spreading a few frowns here and there, then so be it. Now, it’s not something that will happen immediately. It takes time, practice, and the ability to pretend like you’re not nice, when all you want to do is smile, smile like they do in the suburbs, smile to let everyone know you’re nice – you’re a nice young person. Well, you’re not nice anymore. Kill it now and kill it cold. Take me, for instance. I have been working for quite a while on the volume and pitch of my voice when I speak up to strangers, and I have almost got it down to the point where I sound like myself.
--
Fashion Trends I Am Trying Unsuccessfully To Start: Men should buy Ugz boots and either cuff their jeans or tuck them into the boot. I know only girls do this but guys can too now. It looks stupid any other way!
Stupid Things to Complain About: How cold it is.
Gross Things That I Drank Once: Hot dog water
No reaction from the line cutter because his comment was technically too soft for the human ear to detect. He has, however, attracted the attention of a nearby dog, who either doesn’t understand English, or doesn’t care that he has cut in front of such a simpering little pipsqueak.
“Excuse me, I’m actually in line,” a few decibels louder now, enough so that he could at least make himself out. Problem is that while he was mustering the courage to speak audibly, the person in front of him has become quite comfortable in their position in line, so they don’t pay any attention to him.
Now he does one of two things. The first and most comfortable option is to just do nothing. He will glance around awkward, determine that no one has seen his attempt at asserting his existence, (or, if they have, that the resulting embarrassment doesn’t tip the scale against the potential trauma implied in a public dispute), and he will simply come to a stop as the red in his cheeks springs into full bloom. Perhaps he will check his iPod or push some buttons on his cell phone in a feeble attempt to appear casual and absentminded, thinking all the while ‘I should have just spoken up. Why don’t I speak when I speak?!’
If, however, he is feeling bold, he will very lightly and tentatively touch the offending party on the shoulder. “Excuse me, I’m sorry but I was actually waiting in line.” With the sudden increase in volume his voice has jumped an octave. And now his smile expands, stretching his face out on the sides so that his mouth at once appears too wide for his head and too sad to be a smile. Behind that smile he is withering, as though the very act of smiling required self-confidence as its fuel to remain present, and it’s burning through it fast, so fast that he can’t possibly keep the smile going for more than a few seconds longer without breaking down into sobs. Some kindergartners at the corner begin to consider shaking him down for his lunch money.
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize.” At which point the person moves behind him.
“Oh, no problem, it’s don’t worry, okay!” The obvious giddy relief has sent his voice sky high, so that he almost appears to be singing in falsetto.
And if they should resist? Try to pick a fight? Maybe they didn’t see him waiting when they got in line and they’re not about to move. He either will shut down completely or he will get shaky and cry-mad, and there is no limit to the combination of childish insults he might pile into one fed-up and poorly executed comeback. He might proclaim that “this is crap” or “bullshit,” and call the person a “jerk,” or, if he is too worked up to be cognizant, he will say “fuck” or “bitch.” And then, boy is he in for it. Because he has no place slinging words like that around. He simply doesn’t have the composure to stand up strong.
But you can bet that when he tells people about it later, that he uses his real voice when reenacting himself. Odds are he’ll make himself seem cool.
If you get the sense that the reason I have such a detailed knowledge of the psyche of the young, white, please-eager pussy is because I am one, well… what can I say? I clearly am. But I witness it as much as I am it, and I think the whole thing needs to change. We all need to get as fuck-mouthed as the rest of the world, and if that means spreading a few frowns here and there, then so be it. Now, it’s not something that will happen immediately. It takes time, practice, and the ability to pretend like you’re not nice, when all you want to do is smile, smile like they do in the suburbs, smile to let everyone know you’re nice – you’re a nice young person. Well, you’re not nice anymore. Kill it now and kill it cold. Take me, for instance. I have been working for quite a while on the volume and pitch of my voice when I speak up to strangers, and I have almost got it down to the point where I sound like myself.
--
Fashion Trends I Am Trying Unsuccessfully To Start: Men should buy Ugz boots and either cuff their jeans or tuck them into the boot. I know only girls do this but guys can too now. It looks stupid any other way!
Stupid Things to Complain About: How cold it is.
Gross Things That I Drank Once: Hot dog water
See her in the mist of a dewy morning field. She has been riding, dawn is her favorite time to ride, and it is my favorite time to watch her. She dismounts and looks my way, acting surprised to see me, but knowing full well she would find me out here, me leaning against the fence and drinking my morning coffee, watching her as I do every day, because there is no better way I can imagine to wake up.
It was a good idea to buy the farmhouse and leave the city. At first we weren't sure we could handle the change, the shock of the country, but we have settled well. All we need is each other.
One thing the Abercrombie girl doesn't do is get mad at me because I have lousy credit. Boy do I love her for that. Maybe it's because she's so rich from being an Abercrombie model and she can support us both. Or, maybe it's just that she's cooler than the other women I have dated.
"I hope you never pay your debts," she tells me.
"I won't." I assure her, as we laugh and roll around in the leaves.
"What's on tap for today?" I ask her.
"Nothing."
"Why, nothing is what we did yesterday and the day before."
"That's because we never have to do anything again that we don't want to do, silly!" She cries as she shoves leaves in my face.
"Uncle!"
Back on the subway, my gaze wanders from the Abercrombie bag to the girl who is holding it. Yeah, she's cute. Cute and real and I bet she would have a thing or two to say about my thoughts and attitudes. She wouldn't move with me to a farmhouse, and if she would, she would probably expect me to pay for some of it. And when I asked her what was the plan for the day, she would probably have a list. She would probably have a new list every day.
Tuesday is a blue day! Not sad, just blue. Like the color. What, a day can't be blue and still be happy? Preposterous!
“We don’t serve your kind here.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re anemic, right?”
“Um…yeah.”
“Spherocytic?”
“How did you know?”
“Don’t matter. We don’t serve your kind here.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t like what your spleen is doing to your blood cells is why.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“I don’t have any control over it.”
“It’s that kind of attitude that gets you no service here.”
“This is absolutely ridiculous.”
“What’s ridiculous is the wanton destruction of your blood cells, simply because they are shaped spherical instead of donut. Come back without a spleen and maybe I will let you in.”
“Wait…is this somehow about race?”
“It’s not not about race.”
“But we’re the same race.”
“I’m Italian.”
“So am I.”
“Don’t insult my heritage, you anemic son of a bitch.”
“I’m not insulting…are you crazy?”
“How could I not be crazy after what my people have been through?”
“What are you talking about?”
“The Italians have been abused and destroyed by the ‘Spleen’ of society since they first entered the ‘Body.’”
“What do you mean, the Body?”
“America.”
“No, I think the Body would mean the Earth.”
“The Body is America, pal.”
“But that is like suggesting that red blood cells can exist outside the body, don’t you see? If you’re going with this bizarre analogy where the Italians are misshapen red blood cells…”
“Misshapen? Boy, you are askin for it.”
“No…youre the one who is comparing your people to red blood cells, and then to say that America is the Body – that’s wrong – America is the Spleen because red blood cells can exist outside the Spleen, but not outside the Body. Just like Italians can exist outside America...but not... Your analogy is just odd, that’s all I’m saying.”
“So, what, not only am I ‘misshapen,’ but now I’m also stupid? I’m some kind of stupid Italian to you?”
“Um…”
“Or, I’m sorry…I suppose you pronounce it Eyetalian.”
“I told you already, I’m Italian too.”
"You didn't answer whether or not I'm stupid."
"Well, I'm having trouble with...how to answer that."
“How ‘bout you get out of here before I knock your smart-mouth spleen into next week?”
“What?”
“You heard me. Get out and take your no-good spleen with you.”
“But this is supposed to be a doctor’s office. I have an appointment-”
“Get out.”
--
Get Out Of Work Excuses: I accidentally hit myself in the balls and I can't come to work.
Amount of Money I Would Like To Find on the Street Today: One Billion.
Bad First-Date Conversation Topics: "I guess one of my defining characteristics would be anger. Or agression. Or maybe those are 2 different ones, right?"
“We don’t serve your kind here.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re anemic, right?”
“Um…yeah.”
“Spherocytic?”
“How did you know?”
“Don’t matter. We don’t serve your kind here.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t like what your spleen is doing to your blood cells is why.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“I don’t have any control over it.”
“It’s that kind of attitude that gets you no service here.”
“This is absolutely ridiculous.”
“What’s ridiculous is the wanton destruction of your blood cells, simply because they are shaped spherical instead of donut. Come back without a spleen and maybe I will let you in.”
“Wait…is this somehow about race?”
“It’s not not about race.”
“But we’re the same race.”
“I’m Italian.”
“So am I.”
“Don’t insult my heritage, you anemic son of a bitch.”
“I’m not insulting…are you crazy?”
“How could I not be crazy after what my people have been through?”
“What are you talking about?”
“The Italians have been abused and destroyed by the ‘Spleen’ of society since they first entered the ‘Body.’”
“What do you mean, the Body?”
“America.”
“No, I think the Body would mean the Earth.”
“The Body is America, pal.”
“But that is like suggesting that red blood cells can exist outside the body, don’t you see? If you’re going with this bizarre analogy where the Italians are misshapen red blood cells…”
“Misshapen? Boy, you are askin for it.”
“No…youre the one who is comparing your people to red blood cells, and then to say that America is the Body – that’s wrong – America is the Spleen because red blood cells can exist outside the Spleen, but not outside the Body. Just like Italians can exist outside America...but not... Your analogy is just odd, that’s all I’m saying.”
“So, what, not only am I ‘misshapen,’ but now I’m also stupid? I’m some kind of stupid Italian to you?”
“Um…”
“Or, I’m sorry…I suppose you pronounce it Eyetalian.”
“I told you already, I’m Italian too.”
"You didn't answer whether or not I'm stupid."
"Well, I'm having trouble with...how to answer that."
“How ‘bout you get out of here before I knock your smart-mouth spleen into next week?”
“What?”
“You heard me. Get out and take your no-good spleen with you.”
“But this is supposed to be a doctor’s office. I have an appointment-”
“Get out.”
--
Get Out Of Work Excuses: I accidentally hit myself in the balls and I can't come to work.
Amount of Money I Would Like To Find on the Street Today: One Billion.
Bad First-Date Conversation Topics: "I guess one of my defining characteristics would be anger. Or agression. Or maybe those are 2 different ones, right?"
All right. That’s it. This has gone on absolutely long enough. I have had it existing under the unyielding tyranny of the looming daily presence of that bastard of all headaches, Dinner. I am completely fed up with eating in general, and I find Dinner to be the absolute final insult.
Look – I have a lot of things to do. I’m working, I have to always be working. Or if not actually working I’m at least getting stressed about it – so that even though I may not actually be doing anything proactive, that time spent stressing about the work I’m not getting done can still be considered time spent “working.”
I move fast, I can’t be bothered to stop for anything, and yet three times a day I’m expected to not only stop, but stop for about a half an hour and spend that time coming up with some kind of brilliant idea as to what to eat, buying the food, and eating it. I don’t know how I do it, I honestly don’t.
First of all, I have limited creativity. It’s not like my pockets are busting with ideas. Sometimes I get one here and there and when I do I like to promptly capitalize on it, not waste it on being creative with food. Yes I know you could say that an idea is not the same – that a created idea can’t just be turned into a meal, but what I am referring to is the primordial soup of ideas in my head, I feel like the pool is limited, ideas are a finite thing, and every idea I have brings me one scoop closer to being all dried up.
Breakfast is not too bad, but lunch and dinner require endless creativity and innovation. After all, you can’t just eat the same thing every day – you’ll get shipmates’ disease, everyone knows that. So what then? Well, we’re just on our own with absolutely no direction, left to fight and struggle just to put some energy in our bodies.
Dinner…Dinner…what should I have for dinner tonight? Let’s see…they have…yogurt…not candy, not soup, a power bar? Yogurt and a power bar is not a bad dinner, right?
“No!” People everywhere love to say. “That’s not enough for dinner! You need more!”
“More? What more? What the hell should I eat?”
“Well, you should make sure you get this many food groups, and eat plenty of foods that are this color because it’s good for your vision, eat this kind of dead animal because it’s good for your brain, and a teaspoon of oil to keep your coat shiny.”
“What about if I just have ice cream and beer?”
I just have no sense for assembling foods, I think. I want to bang the dry noodles against the jar of sauce, and after some kind of sparkle graphic complete with sound effect, I have a home-cooked Italian feast. Running late? No problem, this Italian meal is the size of a pill!
Hey! You hear that, technology! Make a food pill so we don’t have to eat anymore, how about that?
Because I know a lot of people like to eat, they like to savor the whole experience, the whole aesthetic waste of time, and I’m not saying that is wrong. I’m just saying that, once food is eradicated from our diets, they will be surprised at how much they don’t miss all the hassle. But the flavor, you say? They will program that into the pill – it will be a chip that reacts to the sensor in your mouth that stimulates the proper channel in your central nervous system. Simple!
I know it’s possible that after a sentence like that you might be thinking ‘Oh, this is where all this is going? Oh, forget it.”
Well, this is all going there anyway, with or without my innovative proposal. I expect there will be quite a few years during which people resist chips being put into them, and then do you know what will happen at the end of that era? Everyone will have chips in them.
But one needn’t picture an Orwellian/ Bradburian horror-future where people dream sadly of the real taste of foods, deadened and worn from the experience of sim-food. Instead of that, picture a happy world where everyone couldn’t be happier with the fact that sim-food tastes so much better than the muck food people used to prepare.
“My grampa says people used to make food out of plants and animals and stuff,” little Billy will tell his disbelieving schoolchums. “They smashed it up and set it on fire and then they put it into their mouths!”
Then all the other children will react in horrified disbelief and someone will pop a meal.
Because you look around at people, you look at them all, eating their piles of food, and doesn’t it just make you want to get up and scream sometimes? Look at their greasy lips. Listen to the sound of their lips smacking! Stop eating now while I’m still not quite nuts!
But really, though, in all honesty, I do have an eating disorder.
Look – I have a lot of things to do. I’m working, I have to always be working. Or if not actually working I’m at least getting stressed about it – so that even though I may not actually be doing anything proactive, that time spent stressing about the work I’m not getting done can still be considered time spent “working.”
I move fast, I can’t be bothered to stop for anything, and yet three times a day I’m expected to not only stop, but stop for about a half an hour and spend that time coming up with some kind of brilliant idea as to what to eat, buying the food, and eating it. I don’t know how I do it, I honestly don’t.
First of all, I have limited creativity. It’s not like my pockets are busting with ideas. Sometimes I get one here and there and when I do I like to promptly capitalize on it, not waste it on being creative with food. Yes I know you could say that an idea is not the same – that a created idea can’t just be turned into a meal, but what I am referring to is the primordial soup of ideas in my head, I feel like the pool is limited, ideas are a finite thing, and every idea I have brings me one scoop closer to being all dried up.
Breakfast is not too bad, but lunch and dinner require endless creativity and innovation. After all, you can’t just eat the same thing every day – you’ll get shipmates’ disease, everyone knows that. So what then? Well, we’re just on our own with absolutely no direction, left to fight and struggle just to put some energy in our bodies.
Dinner…Dinner…what should I have for dinner tonight? Let’s see…they have…yogurt…not candy, not soup, a power bar? Yogurt and a power bar is not a bad dinner, right?
“No!” People everywhere love to say. “That’s not enough for dinner! You need more!”
“More? What more? What the hell should I eat?”
“Well, you should make sure you get this many food groups, and eat plenty of foods that are this color because it’s good for your vision, eat this kind of dead animal because it’s good for your brain, and a teaspoon of oil to keep your coat shiny.”
“What about if I just have ice cream and beer?”
I just have no sense for assembling foods, I think. I want to bang the dry noodles against the jar of sauce, and after some kind of sparkle graphic complete with sound effect, I have a home-cooked Italian feast. Running late? No problem, this Italian meal is the size of a pill!
Hey! You hear that, technology! Make a food pill so we don’t have to eat anymore, how about that?
Because I know a lot of people like to eat, they like to savor the whole experience, the whole aesthetic waste of time, and I’m not saying that is wrong. I’m just saying that, once food is eradicated from our diets, they will be surprised at how much they don’t miss all the hassle. But the flavor, you say? They will program that into the pill – it will be a chip that reacts to the sensor in your mouth that stimulates the proper channel in your central nervous system. Simple!
I know it’s possible that after a sentence like that you might be thinking ‘Oh, this is where all this is going? Oh, forget it.”
Well, this is all going there anyway, with or without my innovative proposal. I expect there will be quite a few years during which people resist chips being put into them, and then do you know what will happen at the end of that era? Everyone will have chips in them.
But one needn’t picture an Orwellian/ Bradburian horror-future where people dream sadly of the real taste of foods, deadened and worn from the experience of sim-food. Instead of that, picture a happy world where everyone couldn’t be happier with the fact that sim-food tastes so much better than the muck food people used to prepare.
“My grampa says people used to make food out of plants and animals and stuff,” little Billy will tell his disbelieving schoolchums. “They smashed it up and set it on fire and then they put it into their mouths!”
Then all the other children will react in horrified disbelief and someone will pop a meal.
Because you look around at people, you look at them all, eating their piles of food, and doesn’t it just make you want to get up and scream sometimes? Look at their greasy lips. Listen to the sound of their lips smacking! Stop eating now while I’m still not quite nuts!
But really, though, in all honesty, I do have an eating disorder.
I was just carving a face into the corner of my desk when I started to wonder whether or not I would ever have a job that paid me $5,000 a second. Probably not. I guess I’m okay with that. I don't know. I just always thought that some day I would be rich.
I know $5000 a second is a lot to make, but some guy makes it. His name is Larry Ellison and I saw him on salaryclock.com. My roommate David showed it to me last night. You put in a number as a salary and it calculates what that person is earning, in real time, second by second. Which is a weird way to think about it because I think of making money as something that happens only when I’m at work, not as a sum to be divided by every second of the year, so that it is 11:00 PM on Friday night and I have made 3 cents. 3 cents. 4 cents.
Which is the second problem I have with this. I make about a penny every two and a half seconds! Steve Jobs makes $13 a second. You see, it has a second meter underneath the first, so that you have the great pleasure of comparing your salary against that of people like Bill Gates, who surprisingly only makes nine cents a second, but if Bill Gates actually only makes $630,000 a year, then that, to me, indicates that his books have more tricks than a magician’s hat. Oprah makes about $21 a second, but I think she kind of deserves it. Kind of. As much as anyone who talks on TV during the day deserves $21 a second.
“I’ve only made three cents and she has made two hundred se- two twentyeight, fortynine, shit!”
“Oprah makes a lot more money than you,” David tells me.
How dare she? I thought. How dare they all? Eight cents. Nine.
Not a minute later David announces, “She has made a thousand dollars. How much have you made?”
“Twenty cents.”
“Twenty cents?”
“Yes, twenty cents is what I’ve made, ok?” Watching your salary clock can make you sensitive, especially when you realize- “So, to her…to her a thousand dollars is twenty cents, David!”
“I guess.”
“A thousand dollars is twenty cents.”
“I guess so.”
“I hate her so much.”
And then there’s this Larry Ellison character. I don’t know who he is, but don’t worry about telling me because I don’t actually care to know. He makes $5000 a second. I think. There was some weird verbiage preceding his name, but I think he makes it. I mean, he could very easily just give me ten million dollars. It would be like giving me 10 bucks. Really he could just give that to me easily, without a frown (that is, of course, if he were actually relaxed about his money which rich people never seem to be), as though he were buying a drink for me, his friend.
Now of course he won’t give that to me, but I wonder if he does give it to someone. Shouldn’t he? Sure he should. He could make people very happy by doing things like that, by finding people who need and deserve it and making their life better. He could give them 20 thousand dollars. It would be like tossing them a few pennies. He could give them a million. Would be like buying him a King Size candy bar.
I wonder if he does.
Now, that may seem a laughable thing to say because not only does money make most people into shallow materialistic assholes, but there’s also the fact that people don’t just do that – they don’t just take huge sums of money and bestow it upon people whom they deem worthy. It doesn’t happen.
But shouldn’t it?
And I’m not talking vague donations to charitable organizations – I mean giving some aspiring talent $500,000 and saying, “Here. I don’t need it.”
“But…”
“Really. I don’t need it.”
To receive such a gift would potentially benefit a person’s life immeasurably; to be on the giving end of that would, I think, give a true sense of accomplishment and a great satisfaction to the provider. To give it time and time again (after all it would be like spending 50 dollars, 100 dollars) – well, I just have no idea.
Sure there would be people who abuse it. But in that case I think you would just have to say, “I picked the wrong guy. Hopefully I wont next time,” because ultimately the money lost is an inconsequential amount.
Imagine if Larry Ellison spent what would be my equivalent of $100 (remembering that his $10,000 is my penny) on making people’s lives better. $500,000 each – he could help a lot of people. $100,000, and he could affect that many more. The emotional payoff, the sense of satisfaction, of a great thing achieved, of humanity served, the good, the good you have spread – I can’t imagine that would be anything other than a transcendent experience.
And what of the person who receives? Maybe they wish to repay the kindness granted to them. Maybe they have a different idea now about the value of money, and wouldn’t it be wonderful if we started thinking about money differently? Wouldn’t it make sense that we might start thinking of green paper as less important, ultimately? Because it is surprising how much we revere something that, in actuality, is nothing. And that’s not just the wealthy. It’s most people.
I mean, in all this time I have made 98 cents. 98 cents is not important. Might as well give it away.
I know $5000 a second is a lot to make, but some guy makes it. His name is Larry Ellison and I saw him on salaryclock.com. My roommate David showed it to me last night. You put in a number as a salary and it calculates what that person is earning, in real time, second by second. Which is a weird way to think about it because I think of making money as something that happens only when I’m at work, not as a sum to be divided by every second of the year, so that it is 11:00 PM on Friday night and I have made 3 cents. 3 cents. 4 cents.
Which is the second problem I have with this. I make about a penny every two and a half seconds! Steve Jobs makes $13 a second. You see, it has a second meter underneath the first, so that you have the great pleasure of comparing your salary against that of people like Bill Gates, who surprisingly only makes nine cents a second, but if Bill Gates actually only makes $630,000 a year, then that, to me, indicates that his books have more tricks than a magician’s hat. Oprah makes about $21 a second, but I think she kind of deserves it. Kind of. As much as anyone who talks on TV during the day deserves $21 a second.
“I’ve only made three cents and she has made two hundred se- two twentyeight, fortynine, shit!”
“Oprah makes a lot more money than you,” David tells me.
How dare she? I thought. How dare they all? Eight cents. Nine.
Not a minute later David announces, “She has made a thousand dollars. How much have you made?”
“Twenty cents.”
“Twenty cents?”
“Yes, twenty cents is what I’ve made, ok?” Watching your salary clock can make you sensitive, especially when you realize- “So, to her…to her a thousand dollars is twenty cents, David!”
“I guess.”
“A thousand dollars is twenty cents.”
“I guess so.”
“I hate her so much.”
And then there’s this Larry Ellison character. I don’t know who he is, but don’t worry about telling me because I don’t actually care to know. He makes $5000 a second. I think. There was some weird verbiage preceding his name, but I think he makes it. I mean, he could very easily just give me ten million dollars. It would be like giving me 10 bucks. Really he could just give that to me easily, without a frown (that is, of course, if he were actually relaxed about his money which rich people never seem to be), as though he were buying a drink for me, his friend.
Now of course he won’t give that to me, but I wonder if he does give it to someone. Shouldn’t he? Sure he should. He could make people very happy by doing things like that, by finding people who need and deserve it and making their life better. He could give them 20 thousand dollars. It would be like tossing them a few pennies. He could give them a million. Would be like buying him a King Size candy bar.
I wonder if he does.
Now, that may seem a laughable thing to say because not only does money make most people into shallow materialistic assholes, but there’s also the fact that people don’t just do that – they don’t just take huge sums of money and bestow it upon people whom they deem worthy. It doesn’t happen.
But shouldn’t it?
And I’m not talking vague donations to charitable organizations – I mean giving some aspiring talent $500,000 and saying, “Here. I don’t need it.”
“But…”
“Really. I don’t need it.”
To receive such a gift would potentially benefit a person’s life immeasurably; to be on the giving end of that would, I think, give a true sense of accomplishment and a great satisfaction to the provider. To give it time and time again (after all it would be like spending 50 dollars, 100 dollars) – well, I just have no idea.
Sure there would be people who abuse it. But in that case I think you would just have to say, “I picked the wrong guy. Hopefully I wont next time,” because ultimately the money lost is an inconsequential amount.
Imagine if Larry Ellison spent what would be my equivalent of $100 (remembering that his $10,000 is my penny) on making people’s lives better. $500,000 each – he could help a lot of people. $100,000, and he could affect that many more. The emotional payoff, the sense of satisfaction, of a great thing achieved, of humanity served, the good, the good you have spread – I can’t imagine that would be anything other than a transcendent experience.
And what of the person who receives? Maybe they wish to repay the kindness granted to them. Maybe they have a different idea now about the value of money, and wouldn’t it be wonderful if we started thinking about money differently? Wouldn’t it make sense that we might start thinking of green paper as less important, ultimately? Because it is surprising how much we revere something that, in actuality, is nothing. And that’s not just the wealthy. It’s most people.
I mean, in all this time I have made 98 cents. 98 cents is not important. Might as well give it away.
It’s Freaky Friday people! Everyone switch bodies!
The people on the subway this morning are so ugly that I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Man, few things are more heartbreakingly amusing than ugly New Yorkers at rush hour.
Directly across from me is a 7-foot ogre that you might find inside any magic lamp, if not for his shaggy and overgrown hair and his flappy jowls. He might have been a genie once, in his prime, but this guy got freed from his magical prison and has been sitting and eating at the hookah bar ever since. Scowling too, I think this guy spends a lot of time scowling (probably still sore about being imprisoned for all those centuries - the world outside the hookah bar is much different now).
A few down from him is a frightful old woman sleeping with the pleasant no-expression of an idiot wandering in the cavernous solitude of her empty brain. She’s old, too old, and her face appears to be just a skull with makeup on it. No. Not a skull, actually. It appears as though there was some decomposing skin still clinging to the skull before she put makeup on. You can see it wadded up on her cheeks like cottage cheese. And she’s wearing a lot of makeup. But I can’t say I blame her. She is, after all, the living decomposed.
Oh, and this woman. What am I going to do about her?
Hideous and pitiable, she sits slouched and awkward, her face red, not from rosacea, but from an inexpert application of rosy makeup, her blonde hair reedy and intense, and her eyes, her bug eyes are exploding from her head like they are twin airbags and this woman is a nonstop crash.
Why is it that some women walk around with orange and red faces? I mean, I guess I don’t put on makeup so maybe I wouldn’t know, and I assume it also has some connection to getting short-shrift from using ACME brand self-tanner, but I would be hard-pressed to leave my apartment knowing I looked like a pumpkin or a berry. And so many people do!
I have a suggestion for all the orange and red-facers out there: If you are going to wear makeup, you should pick a makeup that is skin-colored.
And just what is it that gives a person bug eyes? Is it genes or stress? I’m inclined to think stress, but that’s only because this woman seems looks the part because of her red face and bug eyes. Of course, it could also be genetic, and that going through life with bug eyes blasting like spotlights from her face made her the nervous wreck she is today. And then again, looks can be deceiving. She might just be a totally relaxed and cool person with bug eyes who has strange taste in what color she wants her face to be.
No. Not in New York. There is surprisingly little mystique to New Yorkers. It’s all etched on their faces, from the aloof and beautiful to the hard-looked and grit-handed to the red-faced and bug-eyed. Just look around you. We all are what we are and boy does it show.
--
Sounds I Hate: Loud computer keys clicking on commercials as they type out their ad, close-up, on a computer screen.
Not Complicated Phrases That Inexplicably Confused Me For All of My Life Until Yesterday: the elephant in the living room.
Embarrassing Album in My Music Library of the Day: Home For Christmas by Amy Grant
The people on the subway this morning are so ugly that I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Man, few things are more heartbreakingly amusing than ugly New Yorkers at rush hour.
Directly across from me is a 7-foot ogre that you might find inside any magic lamp, if not for his shaggy and overgrown hair and his flappy jowls. He might have been a genie once, in his prime, but this guy got freed from his magical prison and has been sitting and eating at the hookah bar ever since. Scowling too, I think this guy spends a lot of time scowling (probably still sore about being imprisoned for all those centuries - the world outside the hookah bar is much different now).
A few down from him is a frightful old woman sleeping with the pleasant no-expression of an idiot wandering in the cavernous solitude of her empty brain. She’s old, too old, and her face appears to be just a skull with makeup on it. No. Not a skull, actually. It appears as though there was some decomposing skin still clinging to the skull before she put makeup on. You can see it wadded up on her cheeks like cottage cheese. And she’s wearing a lot of makeup. But I can’t say I blame her. She is, after all, the living decomposed.
Oh, and this woman. What am I going to do about her?
Hideous and pitiable, she sits slouched and awkward, her face red, not from rosacea, but from an inexpert application of rosy makeup, her blonde hair reedy and intense, and her eyes, her bug eyes are exploding from her head like they are twin airbags and this woman is a nonstop crash.
Why is it that some women walk around with orange and red faces? I mean, I guess I don’t put on makeup so maybe I wouldn’t know, and I assume it also has some connection to getting short-shrift from using ACME brand self-tanner, but I would be hard-pressed to leave my apartment knowing I looked like a pumpkin or a berry. And so many people do!
I have a suggestion for all the orange and red-facers out there: If you are going to wear makeup, you should pick a makeup that is skin-colored.
And just what is it that gives a person bug eyes? Is it genes or stress? I’m inclined to think stress, but that’s only because this woman seems looks the part because of her red face and bug eyes. Of course, it could also be genetic, and that going through life with bug eyes blasting like spotlights from her face made her the nervous wreck she is today. And then again, looks can be deceiving. She might just be a totally relaxed and cool person with bug eyes who has strange taste in what color she wants her face to be.
No. Not in New York. There is surprisingly little mystique to New Yorkers. It’s all etched on their faces, from the aloof and beautiful to the hard-looked and grit-handed to the red-faced and bug-eyed. Just look around you. We all are what we are and boy does it show.
--
Sounds I Hate: Loud computer keys clicking on commercials as they type out their ad, close-up, on a computer screen.
Not Complicated Phrases That Inexplicably Confused Me For All of My Life Until Yesterday: the elephant in the living room.
Embarrassing Album in My Music Library of the Day: Home For Christmas by Amy Grant
Thursday? More like thirst-day! Everybody get a drink! You don't want to go parched on Thirst-day! (you'll die)
I just had some eggs and got to thinking about the yolk. Now...I can see how human beings first got the idea to cook up eggs and eat them. Eggs, it seems, are a succulent delicacy to all animals, from cartoon weasels to drawings in dinosaur books. The desire to both steal and eat eggs is in the hardwiring of all carniverous animals (which is why I never pay for them - I just open them up in the store and slip an egg or two into my pockets - I am like a weasel!).
But how on earth did we decide that the white definitely needed to be cooked but that the yolk was optional?! Who, oh who was the first person to suggest such a disgusting idea?
Maybe it was a ridiculous joke. Maybe this person, let's call him Matt, was hanging out with some lords and ladies one day, and he thought it would be a gas to make them do something terrible. "that part? Oh, you don't need to cook that part. Just go ahead and drink it up."
See him watching them take the bait in disbelief. See him bite the inside of his lip hard enough to make it bleed. Don't ruin the joke! They're actually going to do it!! Who would do something like this?!!
And imagine his surprise when not only did everyone do exactly as he wished, but that his prank had turned 180, and everyone loved his outlandish suggestion! "What should we call this wonderful new delicacy?" everyone wonders. "Drink the Booger" says Matt. They don't like this joke. "Sunny Side Up!" shouts someone with a stunted imagination, and history is forever changed.
To have a joke go wrong in that way must have been a funny and reflective experience for Matt. I bet he had a lot to think about and chuckle over when he returned to the manor that night.
Just as I have a lot to think about as I drink the proverbial booger!
Things You Should Probably Know: That vaseline hand lotion everybody uses doesnt fucking work.
Fruits That are Too Sexy When Eaten to be Served At Casual Business Functions: Strawberries.
Sounds I Hate: Loud chewers, chewing open-mouthed, savoring their potato chips.
I just had some eggs and got to thinking about the yolk. Now...I can see how human beings first got the idea to cook up eggs and eat them. Eggs, it seems, are a succulent delicacy to all animals, from cartoon weasels to drawings in dinosaur books. The desire to both steal and eat eggs is in the hardwiring of all carniverous animals (which is why I never pay for them - I just open them up in the store and slip an egg or two into my pockets - I am like a weasel!).
But how on earth did we decide that the white definitely needed to be cooked but that the yolk was optional?! Who, oh who was the first person to suggest such a disgusting idea?
Maybe it was a ridiculous joke. Maybe this person, let's call him Matt, was hanging out with some lords and ladies one day, and he thought it would be a gas to make them do something terrible. "that part? Oh, you don't need to cook that part. Just go ahead and drink it up."
See him watching them take the bait in disbelief. See him bite the inside of his lip hard enough to make it bleed. Don't ruin the joke! They're actually going to do it!! Who would do something like this?!!
And imagine his surprise when not only did everyone do exactly as he wished, but that his prank had turned 180, and everyone loved his outlandish suggestion! "What should we call this wonderful new delicacy?" everyone wonders. "Drink the Booger" says Matt. They don't like this joke. "Sunny Side Up!" shouts someone with a stunted imagination, and history is forever changed.
To have a joke go wrong in that way must have been a funny and reflective experience for Matt. I bet he had a lot to think about and chuckle over when he returned to the manor that night.
Just as I have a lot to think about as I drink the proverbial booger!
Things You Should Probably Know: That vaseline hand lotion everybody uses doesnt fucking work.
Fruits That are Too Sexy When Eaten to be Served At Casual Business Functions: Strawberries.
Sounds I Hate: Loud chewers, chewing open-mouthed, savoring their potato chips.
“Listen, I think we need to talk.”
“Oh. Like a talk?”
“Yeah, I think it would be good if we…talked.”
“Wow. So, this is going to be a bad talk?”
“Well, it’s a little more involved than that.”
“This is a surprise. Things were going so well.”
“Oh, they are. They are…going well.”
“But they aren’t.”
“Well…”
“You’re breaking up with me, aren’t you?”
“Okay, let’s not…all right, but first of all, it wouldn’t be me breaking up with you because we have only been out on a few dates.”
“Four dates.”
“Still.”
“But we’re clearly into each other.”
“Yes! We are. I am totally into you.”
“Then why are you breaking up with me?”
“Okay, it’s that phrasing – I can’t get past the inaccuracy of the phrasing.”
“Ending it! Why are you ending it?”
“Honestly?”
“Yes.”
“Have you noticed that birds suddenly appear every time we get together?”
“Yes! Isn’t it romantic?”
“Romantic, huh?”
“Yeah, I think it’s romantic.”
“I mean, I can see why you feel that way.”
“You don’t think it’s romantic?”
“Well, it does make me think of the song.”
“I love that song.”
“I know you do. And I like it just great, and for an instant I think that we might be lucky to have the same experience as the person who wrote that song.”
“We are!”
“But then I think she actually probably did not have this experience.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Well, if she did, I think it might be less a love song and more of a creepy, something’s-wrong song.”
“You think our birds are creepy?”
“Yes.”
“But they only come out for us. When we’re together.”
“Yes, that’s the horrifying aspect of it. Look at this. We’re in my house, for God’s sake. They’re piling up at the windows. It’s only a matter of time before they get in.”
“It will be like a romantic dream!”
“No. Nightmare. You want to have sex with all those birds watching?”
“I don’t think you need to worry about that.”
“I wasn’t worried about it.”
“Cause you’re not getting any.”
“That’s not what this is about.”
“Damn right it’s not.”
“Will you shut up about denying me sex?”
“Don’t tell me to shut up!”
“Sorry.”
“I have to say, I thought you were more romantic than this.”
“This isn’t about romance.”
“Oh no?”
“No. If a few graceful birds soared above our heads and tweeted gaily then yes, that would be romantic. But a flock of silent, watchful birds is highly disturbing, and honestly, I question whether or not you are the reason the birds are here.”
“It could just as easily be you.”
“It’s not me.”
“So what - I’m some weird bird freak? You think I can talk to the birds and so they follow me?”
“Yes. I think you are their queen.”
“That is just…I mean…how ridiculous…you’re gay aren’t you?”
“What?”
“That’s what this is about.”
“No.”
“You’re scared to be with me because you’re afraid to admit that you’re gay!”
“Wow. No.”
“I hope you really look at yourself one day. It’s sad, is what it is.”
“Wait…you’re leaving?”
“You’re damn right, I’m leaving. I don’t date closet-cases.”
“You’re taking the birds with you, right?”
“They’re not my birds!”
“But if you were their queen, you would have them follow you away from here, right?”
“No, if I was their queen, I would have them kill you and devour your remains.”
“Did you see that? Did you fucking see that?”
“What?”
“Don’t what me. You made them move. They got all excited when you said that!”
“So what if they did? Just because they obey my commands doesn’t make me their queen.”
“Look, I’m sorry, okay?”
“Nice try.”
“I mean it. I was so caught up in the improbability of the situation that I lost sight of what a romantic thing it is…all this, you know?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Well, maybe we should open this bottle of wine and I could explain it to you.”
“That might be nice.”
“I’m really happy we didn’t break up. You’ve really helped me realize that I have become a less romantic person the older I get, but that romance does exist, you know? You just have to recognize it for what it is.”
“You’re sweet.
"I try."
"Tell me more.”
“Oh. Like a talk?”
“Yeah, I think it would be good if we…talked.”
“Wow. So, this is going to be a bad talk?”
“Well, it’s a little more involved than that.”
“This is a surprise. Things were going so well.”
“Oh, they are. They are…going well.”
“But they aren’t.”
“Well…”
“You’re breaking up with me, aren’t you?”
“Okay, let’s not…all right, but first of all, it wouldn’t be me breaking up with you because we have only been out on a few dates.”
“Four dates.”
“Still.”
“But we’re clearly into each other.”
“Yes! We are. I am totally into you.”
“Then why are you breaking up with me?”
“Okay, it’s that phrasing – I can’t get past the inaccuracy of the phrasing.”
“Ending it! Why are you ending it?”
“Honestly?”
“Yes.”
“Have you noticed that birds suddenly appear every time we get together?”
“Yes! Isn’t it romantic?”
“Romantic, huh?”
“Yeah, I think it’s romantic.”
“I mean, I can see why you feel that way.”
“You don’t think it’s romantic?”
“Well, it does make me think of the song.”
“I love that song.”
“I know you do. And I like it just great, and for an instant I think that we might be lucky to have the same experience as the person who wrote that song.”
“We are!”
“But then I think she actually probably did not have this experience.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Well, if she did, I think it might be less a love song and more of a creepy, something’s-wrong song.”
“You think our birds are creepy?”
“Yes.”
“But they only come out for us. When we’re together.”
“Yes, that’s the horrifying aspect of it. Look at this. We’re in my house, for God’s sake. They’re piling up at the windows. It’s only a matter of time before they get in.”
“It will be like a romantic dream!”
“No. Nightmare. You want to have sex with all those birds watching?”
“I don’t think you need to worry about that.”
“I wasn’t worried about it.”
“Cause you’re not getting any.”
“That’s not what this is about.”
“Damn right it’s not.”
“Will you shut up about denying me sex?”
“Don’t tell me to shut up!”
“Sorry.”
“I have to say, I thought you were more romantic than this.”
“This isn’t about romance.”
“Oh no?”
“No. If a few graceful birds soared above our heads and tweeted gaily then yes, that would be romantic. But a flock of silent, watchful birds is highly disturbing, and honestly, I question whether or not you are the reason the birds are here.”
“It could just as easily be you.”
“It’s not me.”
“So what - I’m some weird bird freak? You think I can talk to the birds and so they follow me?”
“Yes. I think you are their queen.”
“That is just…I mean…how ridiculous…you’re gay aren’t you?”
“What?”
“That’s what this is about.”
“No.”
“You’re scared to be with me because you’re afraid to admit that you’re gay!”
“Wow. No.”
“I hope you really look at yourself one day. It’s sad, is what it is.”
“Wait…you’re leaving?”
“You’re damn right, I’m leaving. I don’t date closet-cases.”
“You’re taking the birds with you, right?”
“They’re not my birds!”
“But if you were their queen, you would have them follow you away from here, right?”
“No, if I was their queen, I would have them kill you and devour your remains.”
“Did you see that? Did you fucking see that?”
“What?”
“Don’t what me. You made them move. They got all excited when you said that!”
“So what if they did? Just because they obey my commands doesn’t make me their queen.”
“Look, I’m sorry, okay?”
“Nice try.”
“I mean it. I was so caught up in the improbability of the situation that I lost sight of what a romantic thing it is…all this, you know?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Well, maybe we should open this bottle of wine and I could explain it to you.”
“That might be nice.”
“I’m really happy we didn’t break up. You’ve really helped me realize that I have become a less romantic person the older I get, but that romance does exist, you know? You just have to recognize it for what it is.”
“You’re sweet.
"I try."
"Tell me more.”
It's Wednesday! I associate Wednesday with the color yellow!
I have come down with a really bad habit of rubbing my eyeball. I know…it’s a bad habit. But what can I say? My eye is itchy - straight through to the ball.
At first it was really satisfying to just rub my eye, but then I found that a much better way to eliminate the source of the itch was to actually put my fingers on my eyeball and scratch. Like using just a little bit of fingernail.
Of course this is difficult to achieve at first, but after a while, repetition kills the unpleasant reflex action. I think back to the time when I would put my finger down my throat and actually gag or even throw up! Well, no one likes to throw up, not me at least, so I made sure to nip that one in the bud.
So, after years and years of sticking my finger down there, my back-throat gaggers are as dead as my hopes of happiness and fulfillment. I mean it. I can reach back and pinch that punching bag back there and pull on it and my eyes don’t even water! In fact, I’m going to do it right now, just to prove to you.
Done!
So if you’re looking to do this at home, I would suggest warming your fingers and applying some kind of lubrication that won’t irritate your eyes, such as mild soap or shower gel (for slipperiness). Now, just push your finger into your eyeball and try to keep your eyelid open. Don’t mind the spasming and fluttering. The more you relax, the more you trick the reflex. There. Squish it around. Feel the ball. Go ahead – tap it. Isn’t it weird?
Oh, you should also have washed your hands. In fact, if you’re going to get in the habit of rubbing your eyeball, you need to wash your hands an awful lot or you are going to get really sick. I mean it. Within the first week I contracted bird flu, eye-herpes, and smallpox.
Hold on, I got an itch. Did I mention you sometimes lose vision for a little? Sometimes you do.
Songs You Should Have In Your Head Today: She’ll be Comin’ Round the Mountain When She Comes
Delicious: Eat a packet of hot chocolate powder with a spoon.
Willpower: The ability to throw up inside your own mouth and then swallow it back down.
I have come down with a really bad habit of rubbing my eyeball. I know…it’s a bad habit. But what can I say? My eye is itchy - straight through to the ball.
At first it was really satisfying to just rub my eye, but then I found that a much better way to eliminate the source of the itch was to actually put my fingers on my eyeball and scratch. Like using just a little bit of fingernail.
Of course this is difficult to achieve at first, but after a while, repetition kills the unpleasant reflex action. I think back to the time when I would put my finger down my throat and actually gag or even throw up! Well, no one likes to throw up, not me at least, so I made sure to nip that one in the bud.
So, after years and years of sticking my finger down there, my back-throat gaggers are as dead as my hopes of happiness and fulfillment. I mean it. I can reach back and pinch that punching bag back there and pull on it and my eyes don’t even water! In fact, I’m going to do it right now, just to prove to you.
Done!
So if you’re looking to do this at home, I would suggest warming your fingers and applying some kind of lubrication that won’t irritate your eyes, such as mild soap or shower gel (for slipperiness). Now, just push your finger into your eyeball and try to keep your eyelid open. Don’t mind the spasming and fluttering. The more you relax, the more you trick the reflex. There. Squish it around. Feel the ball. Go ahead – tap it. Isn’t it weird?
Oh, you should also have washed your hands. In fact, if you’re going to get in the habit of rubbing your eyeball, you need to wash your hands an awful lot or you are going to get really sick. I mean it. Within the first week I contracted bird flu, eye-herpes, and smallpox.
Hold on, I got an itch. Did I mention you sometimes lose vision for a little? Sometimes you do.
Songs You Should Have In Your Head Today: She’ll be Comin’ Round the Mountain When She Comes
Delicious: Eat a packet of hot chocolate powder with a spoon.
Willpower: The ability to throw up inside your own mouth and then swallow it back down.
It's Tuesday! For the first time I dont care! Get off my back about Tuesday!
Ah. There. That was it. The moment when I drank enough coffee so that it nudged me slightly over the line separating “can’t go on” from “I’ll make it til noon.”
I found a 100 dollar bill in my room! I don’t know which is more unbelievable, the fact that I found it or the fact that I forgot I had it. That’s how rich I am, people! A hundred dollars is nothing to me! In fact, the only reason I was glad to find it was because I was making Century Soup, needed a crisp benny for flavor, and didn’t feel like walking all the way down to my Bling-Hole! Yeah!
I ate that stupid money! I’m totally loaded!
People I Am Not Answering the Phone For Today: ID Unavailable (I know it’s you, Sallie Mae. You’ll never get me! You hear?!)
People Whom I Hope That One Day I Will Enrage: Those people who walk around talking about how their one thing is respect – that “My big thing is respect. All I ask is you respect me.” I mean, what an easy target! That is the definition of asking for it!!
Phrases I Like: Spearhead that initiative.
I feel like starting a fight! Who wants respect? Better yet, who demands it?!
Ah. There. That was it. The moment when I drank enough coffee so that it nudged me slightly over the line separating “can’t go on” from “I’ll make it til noon.”
I found a 100 dollar bill in my room! I don’t know which is more unbelievable, the fact that I found it or the fact that I forgot I had it. That’s how rich I am, people! A hundred dollars is nothing to me! In fact, the only reason I was glad to find it was because I was making Century Soup, needed a crisp benny for flavor, and didn’t feel like walking all the way down to my Bling-Hole! Yeah!
I ate that stupid money! I’m totally loaded!
People I Am Not Answering the Phone For Today: ID Unavailable (I know it’s you, Sallie Mae. You’ll never get me! You hear?!)
People Whom I Hope That One Day I Will Enrage: Those people who walk around talking about how their one thing is respect – that “My big thing is respect. All I ask is you respect me.” I mean, what an easy target! That is the definition of asking for it!!
Phrases I Like: Spearhead that initiative.
I feel like starting a fight! Who wants respect? Better yet, who demands it?!
Monday! Monday funday runday punday doneday bunday gunday! Gunday! Bring your gun to work day!
I woke up this morning and my eyes were glowing and red and I had fangs. And if that isn't weird enough, I'm the only one who can see it. I look in the mirror and I have red glowing eyes and hideous fangs - I really look like some kind of demon or something, but when I went to show my roommate he acted like I was nuts!
"Notice anything different about me?" I said, baring my teeth.
"What? Why?"
"Notice anything different about my glowing eyes or my fangs?"
"What?"
"Hello! My eyes are red and glowing and I have fangs. I think maybe my real father was a demon, perhaps the Devil himself."
"You don't have red eyes or fangs."
"Yeah, look right here. It's a fang."
"It's fucking 5 AM!"
Anyway, he couldn't see and I let him go back to precious sleep.
3 hours later and I'm still in this predicament. But oh well, I guess this could be kind of cool. I have always wished I could have either glowing red or blank white eyes, and while I think I would have preferred blank white (it's eerie without the demonic connotation), glowing red is pretty cool. I guess the fangs may get tricky when I'm making out with someone - I mean, just because they can't see them doesn't mean I can't cut them, right? These fangs are SHARP.
And really, I imagine I will be making out a lot more now that I am half-demon. It's really surprising what red eyes and fangs do for your self-esteem. No kidding - I look at myself in the mirror and not only to I look incredibly cool, but I also get the sense that I am capable of atrocious behavior.
And then I take that attitude out on the town? Tell me I'm not going to score!
--
Infuriating: When you dump the coffee grinds in the garbage, think it is all gone, then turn the basket over only to dump the remaining grinds all over the floor and side of your kitchen counter.
Words I Like: Caustic
Thing I Would Like To Happen Upon of the Day: A salamander.
I woke up this morning and my eyes were glowing and red and I had fangs. And if that isn't weird enough, I'm the only one who can see it. I look in the mirror and I have red glowing eyes and hideous fangs - I really look like some kind of demon or something, but when I went to show my roommate he acted like I was nuts!
"Notice anything different about me?" I said, baring my teeth.
"What? Why?"
"Notice anything different about my glowing eyes or my fangs?"
"What?"
"Hello! My eyes are red and glowing and I have fangs. I think maybe my real father was a demon, perhaps the Devil himself."
"You don't have red eyes or fangs."
"Yeah, look right here. It's a fang."
"It's fucking 5 AM!"
Anyway, he couldn't see and I let him go back to precious sleep.
3 hours later and I'm still in this predicament. But oh well, I guess this could be kind of cool. I have always wished I could have either glowing red or blank white eyes, and while I think I would have preferred blank white (it's eerie without the demonic connotation), glowing red is pretty cool. I guess the fangs may get tricky when I'm making out with someone - I mean, just because they can't see them doesn't mean I can't cut them, right? These fangs are SHARP.
And really, I imagine I will be making out a lot more now that I am half-demon. It's really surprising what red eyes and fangs do for your self-esteem. No kidding - I look at myself in the mirror and not only to I look incredibly cool, but I also get the sense that I am capable of atrocious behavior.
And then I take that attitude out on the town? Tell me I'm not going to score!
--
Infuriating: When you dump the coffee grinds in the garbage, think it is all gone, then turn the basket over only to dump the remaining grinds all over the floor and side of your kitchen counter.
Words I Like: Caustic
Thing I Would Like To Happen Upon of the Day: A salamander.
It's Sunday! Big stinkin whoop! I mean it! I feel a big stinkin whoop in regards to today!
Laundry is an awful little bi-weekly fiasco, and I have about 40 pounds of it waiting for me in the next room. Maybe I just won't go in there. Or, better yet, maybe I will go in there, but when I do, I will behave as though I have already done the laundry, so as to trick it sort of, see? Yeah!
I will walk in and say "Man, what a grueling experience it was, but it was all worth it just to have all of my clothes clean!" and then I will proceed nonchalantly to start folding all my dirty clothes as though they were clean. I think the trick here is to act like you are 100% truthful. You don't want to suggest you're lying to a roomful of dirty clothes. I mean, if they all worked together, they could smother you.
And really, how bad would it be to just wear all your clothes over again? I guess it would maybe be pretty bad if you were some kind of sweaty stinky person, but this is me here - I never sweat and even if I did, it would have the neutral no-smell of the purest people-water. How do I know this? Easy. I don't smell.
In fact, I may never have to do laundry again! I mean, realistically speaking, I could probably wear my clothes 30-50 more times before they start to smell, and at that point I might as well buy new clothes, right?
Right!
Songs You Should Have In Your Head Today: If I Could Turn Back Time by Cher
Things You Should Do Today: Eat a sugar packet - paper and all! Do it!!
Funny Drug of the Day: Oxycontin
Laundry is an awful little bi-weekly fiasco, and I have about 40 pounds of it waiting for me in the next room. Maybe I just won't go in there. Or, better yet, maybe I will go in there, but when I do, I will behave as though I have already done the laundry, so as to trick it sort of, see? Yeah!
I will walk in and say "Man, what a grueling experience it was, but it was all worth it just to have all of my clothes clean!" and then I will proceed nonchalantly to start folding all my dirty clothes as though they were clean. I think the trick here is to act like you are 100% truthful. You don't want to suggest you're lying to a roomful of dirty clothes. I mean, if they all worked together, they could smother you.
And really, how bad would it be to just wear all your clothes over again? I guess it would maybe be pretty bad if you were some kind of sweaty stinky person, but this is me here - I never sweat and even if I did, it would have the neutral no-smell of the purest people-water. How do I know this? Easy. I don't smell.
In fact, I may never have to do laundry again! I mean, realistically speaking, I could probably wear my clothes 30-50 more times before they start to smell, and at that point I might as well buy new clothes, right?
Right!
Songs You Should Have In Your Head Today: If I Could Turn Back Time by Cher
Things You Should Do Today: Eat a sugar packet - paper and all! Do it!!
Funny Drug of the Day: Oxycontin
I am freakin sick people! Every time I cough it is like fire! I have been coughing fire all morning! Literally! My entire apartment has been reduced to cinders! Dragon-Daddy said it would be like this when I reached a certain age, but you just don’t believe some things until youre standing in smoldering rubble!
Suspicious: When you use someone’s bathroom and their magazines are all rippled and water damaged. I always suspect foul play.
Sounds I Love: The sound of money rollers in the ATM. That means your transaction has gone THROUGH.
Things You Should Probably Know: Jiffy Lube is a gross name for a business.
Barf!
Suspicious: When you use someone’s bathroom and their magazines are all rippled and water damaged. I always suspect foul play.
Sounds I Love: The sound of money rollers in the ATM. That means your transaction has gone THROUGH.
Things You Should Probably Know: Jiffy Lube is a gross name for a business.
Barf!
Big deal! Like I didn't know that already!
I'm agitated! The wind was blowing my hair. What's the point of doing hair if there's going to be wind? None! Now I look like a retard and the only person I have to blame is you! (well, surely I cant blame the wind)
Fruit of the Day: Beans
Embarassing Song in My Music Library of the Day: Milkshake by Kelis
Words I Hate: Bond (e.g. I havent talked to my brother in a while so we just got a drink and bonded)
Things You Didnt Care to Know Today: I always flush before using a public toilet because I fear that if you dont, other peoples pee germs will fly up in your face.
I need more coffee and more sugar!
I'm agitated! The wind was blowing my hair. What's the point of doing hair if there's going to be wind? None! Now I look like a retard and the only person I have to blame is you! (well, surely I cant blame the wind)
Fruit of the Day: Beans
Embarassing Song in My Music Library of the Day: Milkshake by Kelis
Words I Hate: Bond (e.g. I havent talked to my brother in a while so we just got a drink and bonded)
Things You Didnt Care to Know Today: I always flush before using a public toilet because I fear that if you dont, other peoples pee germs will fly up in your face.
I need more coffee and more sugar!
“Everything happens for a reason.”
“What?”
“Everything happens for a reason.”
“No.”
“I believe it does.”
“It doesn’t.”
“Well, I like to believe it does, you know? I like to believe that.”
“But you’re wrong.”
“It’s not a right-wrong thing. It’s just a thing I believe because I like to believe it.”
“It helps you through bad times.”
“Right.”
“Even though you are wrong.”
“I’m not wrong.”
“Well, you’re not right.”
“But you don’t know that I’m wrong”
“Yes, I know that.”
“Yeah, but you can’t know something like that.”
“Give me an example of something that happens for a reason.”
“Everything does.”
“Yeah but something. What if you get hit by a car?”
“I would say that happened for a reason.”
“Yeah, but what’s the reason?”
“I haven’t been hit by a car, so I wouldn’t know.”
“I hope you get hit by a car so we can get to the bottom of this.”
“Shut up.”
“I do. I pray it, actually.”
“Don’t say that.”
“I pray that you get hit by a car.”
“You do not.”
“More than anything I have ever prayed for.”
“Stop it.”
“Amen.”
“Take it back!”
“You can’t take something back after you have said Amen.”
“I’m serious. Don’t pray for things like that.”
“Fine.”
“Take it back.”
“I take it back.”
“Thank you.”
“Not that it will do you any good because I said Amen, but you seem to be into wishful, crazy thinking anyway.”
“A lot of people agree with me. A lot of people believe that everything happens for a reason.”
“What if it’s your wallet? Your wallet got pickpocketed.”
“I don’t think I would let that happen.”
“But you did.”
“But I wouldn’t.”
“But in this scenario you did.”
“No, really I keep a keen sense of where my wallet is on me at any time.”
“Pickpockets are good.”
“No, like I’m thinking about them. I think about pickpockets a lot when I’m out because I think it would be cool to catch one in the act.”
“How much do you think it?”
“Everyone I see.”
“Really?”
“Well, I don’t dwell on it, but it’s a passing thought.”
“Everyone you see.”
“Sure. Bound to catch one sometime.”
“Someone demanded your wallet at weapon point then.”
“Weapon point?”
“Guns make me nervous to think about, so I prefer not to name them.”
“So they steal my wallet?”
“Yeah. What would be the cosmic reason for that?”
“Teach me to not be so stressed out about money.”
“That’s stupid.”
“No it isn’t. It’s an important lesson to learn.”
“It should be more veiled if it’s really a reason.”
“It’s not a clever contest.”
“Okay, not only do I reject the notion that everything happens for a reason, but I am going to set out to disprove your little theory by doing drastic and nonsensical things indiscriminately, just to show you the accidental nature of the universe.”
“Don’t.”
“Too late. Help me carry the TV to the window.”
“What?”
“Everything happens for a reason.”
“No.”
“I believe it does.”
“It doesn’t.”
“Well, I like to believe it does, you know? I like to believe that.”
“But you’re wrong.”
“It’s not a right-wrong thing. It’s just a thing I believe because I like to believe it.”
“It helps you through bad times.”
“Right.”
“Even though you are wrong.”
“I’m not wrong.”
“Well, you’re not right.”
“But you don’t know that I’m wrong”
“Yes, I know that.”
“Yeah, but you can’t know something like that.”
“Give me an example of something that happens for a reason.”
“Everything does.”
“Yeah but something. What if you get hit by a car?”
“I would say that happened for a reason.”
“Yeah, but what’s the reason?”
“I haven’t been hit by a car, so I wouldn’t know.”
“I hope you get hit by a car so we can get to the bottom of this.”
“Shut up.”
“I do. I pray it, actually.”
“Don’t say that.”
“I pray that you get hit by a car.”
“You do not.”
“More than anything I have ever prayed for.”
“Stop it.”
“Amen.”
“Take it back!”
“You can’t take something back after you have said Amen.”
“I’m serious. Don’t pray for things like that.”
“Fine.”
“Take it back.”
“I take it back.”
“Thank you.”
“Not that it will do you any good because I said Amen, but you seem to be into wishful, crazy thinking anyway.”
“A lot of people agree with me. A lot of people believe that everything happens for a reason.”
“What if it’s your wallet? Your wallet got pickpocketed.”
“I don’t think I would let that happen.”
“But you did.”
“But I wouldn’t.”
“But in this scenario you did.”
“No, really I keep a keen sense of where my wallet is on me at any time.”
“Pickpockets are good.”
“No, like I’m thinking about them. I think about pickpockets a lot when I’m out because I think it would be cool to catch one in the act.”
“How much do you think it?”
“Everyone I see.”
“Really?”
“Well, I don’t dwell on it, but it’s a passing thought.”
“Everyone you see.”
“Sure. Bound to catch one sometime.”
“Someone demanded your wallet at weapon point then.”
“Weapon point?”
“Guns make me nervous to think about, so I prefer not to name them.”
“So they steal my wallet?”
“Yeah. What would be the cosmic reason for that?”
“Teach me to not be so stressed out about money.”
“That’s stupid.”
“No it isn’t. It’s an important lesson to learn.”
“It should be more veiled if it’s really a reason.”
“It’s not a clever contest.”
“Okay, not only do I reject the notion that everything happens for a reason, but I am going to set out to disprove your little theory by doing drastic and nonsensical things indiscriminately, just to show you the accidental nature of the universe.”
“Don’t.”
“Too late. Help me carry the TV to the window.”
That guys socks are clearly on backwards. The heel of the sock is visibly protruding in the ruffles of sock on top of his foot where his socks meet his shoe. And just what the hell does he have so many ruffles in that sock for, anyway? Socks arent like sacks that you gather around your feet and stuff into a shoe. Socks should be tight. And on frontwards. What a jackass.
Things I want to be able to say someday: You wouldnt know comedy if it prison raped you.
Songs you should have stuck in your head today: I think we're alone now by Tiffany.
Words I like: estranged
Phrases I hate: Curl up with a good book.
That's all for now, I don't have a lot of ideas!
Things I want to be able to say someday: You wouldnt know comedy if it prison raped you.
Songs you should have stuck in your head today: I think we're alone now by Tiffany.
Words I like: estranged
Phrases I hate: Curl up with a good book.
That's all for now, I don't have a lot of ideas!
3/15/06
Germans are descended from robots.
Something I Want to Clear Up: The prevalent male desire to destroy things and beat people up is not necessarily related to penis size or sexual identity. Sometimes they were also the shortest kid in the grade. Dig?
Earth to Bar Bathrooms: When I close the stall door, I don't want to have to do acrobatics to avoid hitting my leg on the toilet.
Germans are descended from robots.
Something I Want to Clear Up: The prevalent male desire to destroy things and beat people up is not necessarily related to penis size or sexual identity. Sometimes they were also the shortest kid in the grade. Dig?
Earth to Bar Bathrooms: When I close the stall door, I don't want to have to do acrobatics to avoid hitting my leg on the toilet.
