Every year, right before, during, or after my birthday, I freak out. I don’t know why. All is going well, but because another great year is in store, I have to deaden my joy by making up things to fret about and picking scabs guaranteed to bleed. It’s my way.
This year I’m upset because people are not nice and they are stupid. Why doesn’t anyone wave “thank you” when you let them in your lane? Why do people do things in the name of God or the preservation of religion that go against all that is holy and sacred? Why are there so many tv shows that are popular that actually destroy brain cells as you watch? What kind of a fool would audition to be on a show called “Naked and Afraid”? Of course nobody will find love on “The Bachelor”! And why do we always have to be right or have the last word? Why do we feel like just because we can, we are justified in doing? What good can possibly come from trying crystal meth? How can you not think that flossing is a good idea – you’ve seen the crud that comes out of your mouth, right? Why would you eat the shit you are stuffing in your face – it’s not even made out of food!
Why don’t dogs clean up their own poo? What am I? Your doo doo slave? Why do my toenails look purple in the shower? Do I have to get old? How come teenagers can’t understand how bitchy that smirk on their faces looks? Why do I always forget to write it down when I think of it? Why do we say such mean things to people we don’t want to hurt, ever? How come one side of the Qtip is a fluffy earwax pillow, and the other side is just a pokey stick with a comb over? How is it possible that a plane the size of a neighborhood vanishes without a trace?
I’m mad at myself. “Shut yer piehole, why don’tcha?” I think. Why do I always fall into the same patterns? Aren’t I ever going to evolve? When will I learn? And why am I so hard on myself? I know I’m good enough, smart enough, blah, blah, blah…why do I have to wake up in the night to think about all of the ways I could fail, or am failing, or will fail? Have I always thought that I wasn’t quite good enough, even though I know that if I was my friend, I’d like think I was a real swell fella? I like people much more asshole-y and loserish than me, so what the hell is that all about? Why would I be kinder and more forgiving to fictional friends than I would be to my real life self? And why do I procrastinate? I hate that I make double the work for myself EVERY SINGLE TIME, because I am so unbelievably lazy, and more than that, so ass-stubborn that I refuse to do what I know I have to do, because I don’t like it when I tell myself what to do? That is some Grade-A neurosis, I tell you what. Why do I do bad things (right now, as we speak, I’m doing something bad. I am.) Also, I’m not doing my grades, which are due and have been due, and I knew it and I still didn’t even start them, on account of I didn’t want to, so instead I bought a bunch of books that I’ll never have time to read because I’m always behind and feel guilty about reading when I should be grading. And I didn’t need any books because I still haven’t finished the one I’m reading, or even Jonathan Franzen’s The Corrections, which I’ve been reading for at least three years. Why can’t I read? I’m a fockin’ eejit.(That’s how my old friend Johnny McGreavy from Kilkenny used to say “fucking idiot” when he was drunk.)
I’m all upset about Ukraine and Venezuala and North Korea and the entire Middle East. All across the country people are rejecting science in favor of bullshit. Ted Nugent is an elder statesman in my state. People are hungry and cold and sad. I’m worried about some of the young kids I know – they have such tough roads ahead of them. How do any of us make it? I heard this horrible news story on the BBC when I couldn’t sleep – why can’t I sleep?- about a man so filled with hate, so damaged, that he proudly described how he participated in a mob that beat a man to death, then shot him, then decapitated him, then burned his body and then – I hate to be the one to tell you; it’s so horrible- ate his leg. It was two in the afternoon and this guy was bragging in broken English about he was eating his enemy. As Johnny would say, “Jay-zuss”. That is messed up.
There’s more, but that’s enough.
At about this time every year, I’m a basket case. It’s weird, because normally I’m so happy and even-keeled. I have absolutely everything going for me; there’s nothing that’s not going really well. In fact, the sun is setting and it’s gorgeous, like raspberry jam spread across a purple and indigo sky. Tomorrow it will be Spring here, 70 degrees. I will plant a garden and things will grow, and I’ll be happy whenever I eat them. I am good to nature, and nature is good to me. My mom and sister are having a special lunch for me in the backyard, and I got to invite some of my friends (sorry if you didn’t make the cut), and they will probably bring me presents and tell me I’m pretty. Soon I’ll be done with my grading and my tv will be fixed – that’s another thing- how come everyone else just loves their U-Verse and mine keeps breaking down?- and all will be right with the world.
In fact, I feel a little better already.
I just love my blog! As soon as I’m safely out of my funk, I will look back on this and feel petty – and then I will delete it forever. Future generations will never have to know how I really am, their perfect vision going unmarred into eternity. So, shhhh, gentle reader. This ugly freak out will be our little secret. Go buy some book you won’t read for yourself in my honor, and when you floss tonight, with each plaque-y chunk that you excavate, know that I approve.