Living Like I'm Dying

If we’ve learned anything from modern philosophy, meaning Facebook bumper stickers, Kris Allen, and inspirational posters with photos of ducklings on them, it’s to “live like we’re dying.”  I am not doing that today.

You see, I would NOT like to spend my last day on earth in this coffee shop using my iPod to drown out the three Adele songs the radio seems to be playing on repeat.  When we are told to “live each day like it’s the last,” I think we’re expected to run up mountains, bungee jump off cliffs, and announce to the men or women we’ve been pining over for years that “I AM IN LOVE WITH YOU and also I am dying.”  But if I were really going to die tomorrow (knock on wood), I would do none of those things.  I would just cry and then eat a lot of macaroni and cheese.

But even though today I’m not living like I’m dying by sending out a mass text that reads “luv u, plz make sure my cat is fed after im gone,” I do sound like I’m dying.  And sounding like I’m dying is kind of like living like I’m dying.  I have this very distinct, deep, gravelly, asthmatic-sea-lion cough, and I’ve had it on and off for years.  It’s pretty impossible to imagine just how awful this sounds, unless your brain can combine a dog’s bark with the sound of a broken garbage disposal.  If I had been born centuries ago, an infant with this hearty, diabolical cough, my villagers, fearing the spread of disease, would probably have abandoned me on some forsaken hillside, where kindly shepherd people would have found me and raised me as their own.  As I grew up, they would probably attempt to exorcise me, and if that didn’t work out, I probably would be screwed.  I’m glad I live in this century. 

But having my cough now ain’t no picnic, neither.  It’s uncomfortable for me when women at the mall lock eyes with me, gingerly reach for my hands, and tell me they’ll pray for me.  It’s offensive when self-righteous 14-year-old girls flip around to face me after a particularly asthmatic fit to gloat, “God, smoke much?!”  The only time my cough actually benefitted me was when a waiter brought me a free brownie, complemented me on my “deep vibrato cough,” and told me he hoped I’d get better soon.  I love brownies.  It was awesome. 

But here’s what I’ve discovered: People do not believe me when I tell them that there is nothing wrong me, and that I just was plopped on this earth sounding like a dying person.  Even though I am NOT dying, it makes people uncomfortable when I tell them I’m not; they think I’m lying to them, lying to myself, and generally living in denial of some obviously fatal condition.  Strangers expressing their sympathy would much rather I nod forlornly, thank them for their concern, and murmur something like, “Today is actually a good day… maybe tomorrow will be better,” or sigh, “Well… I’m a fighter,” with a wistful look in my eye that says, “Oh, to reach 30.”

If I actually start doing this, I realize I’ll be taking the phrase “live like you’re dying” more literally than, perhaps, Kris Allen and the duckling posters intended.  But the way I see it is, if I were to really live this day like it were my last, I’d be in a hospital on oxygen, screaming profanities and poetry verses in an attempt to leave my loved ones with something profound to remember me by.  At least I’m out of bed.  Because hey… I’m a fighter.

Vlog #2: Weird Noises in Class

People do some strange shit in class.  Let's talk about it.

Paranoia

This parrot gets me.

I don’t leave my house without an ID card for one reason:  If I die a horribly violent death and am maimed beyond recognition, I want the authorities to be able to identify my body.

Paranoia is a huge part of our lives.  Just admit it!  We all are convinced we’ve been stalked or at least followed at some point in our lives.  If you’re like me, it doesn’t matter if you live in a community where the most common crime is jaywalking.  Late at night, when you’re home alone, that lone car cruising down your quaint suburban street is driven by a MURDERER. 

We like to think we’ve matured since the days of peeking inside our closets before climbing into bed.  We know, deep down, that if we let our arm dangle over the side of the mattress, it probably won’t be grabbed/chopped/eaten in the middle of the night.  And if we’re honest with ourselves, we know that there are real dangers and tragedies in the world that are actually worth being concerned about.  BUT IT’S HARD TO BE HONEST WITH OURSELVES.  There are scary shows like “Pretty Little Liars” on ABC Family that make it very easy for us to think that all the neighbors, roommates, and fedora-wearing creepers of the world are together plotting to kill us.

Someone out there is probably going to murder you.  It is now, in this cold and competitive world, that we should be the most vigilant. My own sister was almost killed earlier this week.  Here to tell you about it herself, I present to you…. Guest-blogger JENNY!

Jenny:  “I narrowly avoided a gruesome death this week. I had just gotten out of the shower - I was rinsing my head of olive oil, a terrific home remedy for dry hair! - when I heard a knock on the door. That's right, a knock on the door!! I don't know anybody. Well, I know some people, but no one who would come over unexpectedly in the evening without calling first. Clearly it was a murderer! I panicked and immediately took stock of the situation. First of all, I was naked. Awkward! I don't want to be murdered naked! Second of all, I didn't have any music or TV on. Great! The murderer would not hear anything and come in to murder me. Also, my bathroom and my bedroom have locks, so I could hide in there if need be. Or, I could go get a knife and nakedly stab the murderer if he came in. (Unfortunately, my door was completely unlocked, despite the fact I have three locks to keep me safe from these very situations.) I finally decided to stand frozen in terror, then go sit on the couch staring at the door. Eventually I felt safe enough to get up and lock the door.

However, this killer was persistent! The next day, I came home from work to find my television on! I went into Sydney Bristow spy-mode and wandered around the apartment, looking in every nook and cranny. Then, when I had calmed enough to climb into bed and surf the web, my landline rang! No one had this number. I only got the landline because a bundle with my Internet and TV was cheaper with phone than without. WTF! MURDERER!!!! Obviously death was imminent. I put my affairs in order, aka called my mom and told her a killer was after me. Then I took a nap.

The killer has not come back... yet. I have installed a new security system in my apartment, though. And by that I mean, I now lock my door the second I come in.

Some people might say that the remote for my television was facing my TV on the coffee table and that my cat, George, could have easily stepped on it and turned the television on. Some might also say that according to my Cox Communications website, a voicemail came in around the time of the mysterious phone call telling me some bla thing about my Cox account. Some might say that the person at the door was someone selling papers or Girl Scout cookies. To those people I say, SCREW YOU! IT WAS A MURDERER! I am a survivor. I'm gonna make it. I will survive. Keep on survivin'.”

Thanks for that, Jenny!!  I’m promptly going to seek out your landline phone number and publish it on the Internet for everyone to call at odd times of night.  In the meantime, stay safe guys.  There are some pretty crackers people out there.

Bananas and Bread

I’m a non-confrontational person, and I like to avoid controversy.  That’s why my go-to response to assertions I don’t agree with is a thoughtfully mumbled, “Hm, er, well.  Huh!”  I’m not going to nod my head and refuse to stand up for what I believe in, but I am going to be timid when it comes to challenging someone.  If I’m stuck in a conversation with someone ranting opinions I don’t remotely agree with, I’m probably just going to squirm uncomfortably until my companion is also too uncomfortable to keep talking.

But I’m only like this because I don’t want to offend anyone.  My fear of accidentally hurting someone’s feelings cripples me—and this blog.   But I’ve realized that no matter what I write about, I am going to piss someone off.

Let’s talk about bananas.  I don’t really like them.  Maybe you, gentle reader, can respect that I don’t like bananas.  But what if I were to really disrespect bananas publicly, on the Internet?  What if I were to write that I find their texture mushy and that, although I buy and eat them occasionally, I think they serve no purpose, and that the world would be better off without them?  Woah.  “Too far,” you might think.  “I know how to cook bananas 50 different ways.  My family grew up harvesting bananas on the banana… farm.  I will never read this blog again after I leave an angry anonymous comment.”

And me being me, I won’t be like, “Screw this person and their banana love!”  I’ll be like “Oh my stars, I’m a terrible human, I must do penance by working on a banana farm for a year and eating only bananas.”

But there is no way that I can avoid ever offending anyone, because I have to assert something when I write… otherwise what’s the point in writing?  Let me be noncontroversial, for a second.  Forget bananas, let’s talk about bread: 

“Bread is good.  It’s okay if you don’t think bread is good.  Some people can’t have glucose.  I’m sorry if you can’t.  Not that I pity you, or think you’re pitiful.  Maybe you’re on a diet so you don’t want bread.  If so, I respect your decision to diet.  I’m not calling you fat, though.  In conclusion, bread is something that some people enjoy, and I am glad that some people enjoy it, but bread is not for everyone.”

That was probably the most successfully non-controversial piece I’ve ever written.  But it also didn’t mean anything; I didn’t say anything.  And THAT is why, in the future, I am just going to have to go ahead and make a point, whether or not it offends people.  And that’s also why I want to make it clear that if you don’t like what I have to say, that’s fine.  This is a blog.  It’s like an online journal but with less bitching and self-berating.  You can comment.  Or you can just X out of the window and think to yourself, “I don’t give a shit.”  Or you can get all fired up and write a defense of bananas or bread or whatever, and send it to me.  I’ll probably be like, “Valid point, my friend!  Bananas DO have potassium, and I am grateful for that!”  Yayyy bananas. 

PS:  For my more sensitive readers:  My apologies for using the word “shit.”  Oh, and “bitching.”  Yeah.

Vlog #1: Voice Pitch

The great thing about this vlog is that, if you don't find the content interesting, you can entertain yourself by just pressing pause at random moments and looking for my least-attractive, most deranged facial expressions.
PS:  Consider this a fun experiment.  I will be back to writing regular posts in the future!

Humor Ages

When I was a little girl, I remember someone telling me, “Beauty fades… good looks won’t last forever.”  This was probably supposed to teach me that either A.  It’s what’s on the inside that counts or B. I should invest in Botox.  But I’m still not sure why this person felt the need to lend me this truism.  I wasn’t the prettiest child.  It’s almost like they were saying, “Things will never get better for you.”

I understood what they were trying to say, though.  It’s only now that I wonder why no one ever told me that I couldn’t be funny forever, either.

I’m not sure if funny people are born or made, but I don’t think I was born funny.  When I was in preschool, I thought I was hilarious—but then, the answer to every joke I told was, “SPAGHETTI!” as in, “Why did the chicken cross the road?  …SPAGHETTI!”  By the time I was twelve, my sense of humor had developed to its current level, and still no one found me funny.  My now spaghetti-free jokes were met with crickets or the classic “ur weird” response.  … Ah, middle school.

But at some point, people started laughing at the things I said.  Instead of using the word “weird,” to describe me, they started calling me “funny” and “quirky.”  And then it occurred to me: these are the glory days.  It’s a good thing people think I'm funny now, because 20 years from now I will just be considered the most embarrassing mom EVER.  My potential future child (let’s call him Bumbury) will HATE me if I do something like dress up as Justin Bieber and serenade his friends on Halloween.  Bumbury’s friends will go home and tell their parents that they don’t want to go back to Bumbury’s house because Bumbury’s mom is on DRUGS.

But I won’t be on drugs.  I’ll just have aged, and my quirkiness will have turned back into weirdness, and my sarcastic tone will become a cold sort of cynicism that will find me wearing anti-aging cream, holding a martini, and unleashing a long stream of obscenities on Bumbury and friends. 

I have so much to look forward to. 

So the moral of the story is—and this is definitely one I’ll teach Bumbury—that you are going to be ugly one day.  And you are also probably going to stop being funny, unless you’re Betty White.  So you better have something to fall back on besides stories about the glory days when you dressed up as Justin Bieber for Halloween.  And what could that be?  SPAGHETTI!  Just kidding.  I have no idea.

Stay in school, guys.  Stay in school

<3, Biebs

Being Cool at Art School

When I was sixteen, I went to a boarding school for the arts.  But before you picture me doing something all art-schooly like using petrified chipmunk bones to scrape organic paints onto aluminum car parts, you should know that I studied ballet there… and I didn’t exactly fit in.

It’s not that I didn’t have friends.  I did, and they were awesome.  It was at art school that I discovered that I could do strange things like compose passionate slam poetry about chocolate, or cheerfully say “hello” to squirrels, without anyone so much as batting an eye.  At first it felt liberating.  I had shaken the dust of suburban paradise off my Ugg boots and arrived in a world allegedly unaffected by superficiality.  I was an angst-ridden teen, and it seemed like, for the first time in my life, I didn’t have to try to be cool.

But I soon learned art school had its own standards of what was and wasn’t cool.  Doing risqué yoga moves in public areas of campus and spray painting “Drop acid, not bombs” on the cafeteria wall?  Definitely cool.  But I’m fairly certain no one at my school actually dropped acid... thank heavens.  They were all too busy being miniature Mozarts and Vincent Van Goghs. 

Nevertheless, I was disenchanted.  So what if I didn’t have dreadlocks and I liked straightening my hair?!  Impeccable hygiene is important to me!  And I just couldn’t afford the Free People clothes that, worn in many layers, would allow me to rock the homeless person look.  My money had been spent on the Abercrombie shirts and Ugg boots that were now so very uncool.  “So screw it,” I thought.  “I’ll wear my Uggs and straighten my hair.  But maybe I’ll do things like listen to French jazz and bake my own granola, too.  I’ll be myself!”

One year later, after deciding ballet was no longer my calling, I went back to suburban paradise feeling tortured and misunderstood, wearing my black leather jacket, and quoting Christina Rossetti.  I thought everything was “cliché.”  Everyone was “shallow.” 

I was intolerably pretentious and annoying. 

Eventually I came back alive again.  I started incorporating colors into my wardrobe, and not so many years later I even started listening to Justin Bieber.  So though I carry a bit of art school within me and I still eat granola, art school did no permanent damage.  I always did talk to squirrels, and I still sometimes do, because I think they’re adorable.  And I still wear my now painfully out-of-style Uggs.  Because gosh darn it, they’re the comfiest things ever trod upon, and I challenge the man who states otherwise.