Wednesday, September 19, 2012
If I'd Known I'd Have Stayed.... Home?
Before you start thinking whatever it is you're thinking, I've explained dozens of times that a single conversation with me can probably solve years and years of speculation, hypothetical conjecture, and the simply rude tradition of gossip that has been embraced concerning my well being, or let's face it, my complete lack of well being and whether or not I've traveled to not only another country, but to that celestial dimension where you can say anything about me free from any kind of repercussion, without fear of any evidence to the contrary that disproves your theories. I had no idea I was that interesting and frankly still don't harbor the idea at all that I am, but for when I have this all too common exchange.
You - "I heard you were dead." Me - "Yeah, I get that a lot."
Of course when it comes down to apologizing for not having achieved even such low set standards or a goal such as this, I guess the alternative is to smile and be gracious for such well wishes, genuinely say I have no complaints aside from the satire I write not paying for every extravagance and the only real tragedy that I haven't found a writer or conversationalist who makes me laugh harder than I make myself laugh. In the process I not only convince people I haven't died while at the same time making most wish more than ever that I finally will or will soon. Aside from my Mom, people can't take this perky morning person for more than short doses, and anyone who knows me will have to admit to being exhausted by me in some way, shape or form, perky being a cute word for a classic mania disorder. I can apologize for still being alive but you know I kind of wish I had someone who brought a bit of excitement into my life, then had the manners and insight to know when it was time to exit without being subtly urged or not so subtly urged. Would I tell me to go? Probably. Would I have sex with me first? Yes! If I met me, I'd definitely jump my bones. Such is taking that extra effort to not only entertain while at the same time to repel; it makes it easier for me to just up and leave without having to make up any excuses, or you asking me to have to make excuses. Everybody wins..... Yay, everybody!
That having been said, although I admit freely I have trust issues, there are people, premises, and conclusions that I wholly trust. Among them I trust that my life has only been made more interesting by decisions made by me, for me, or about me. I trust that I will be misunderstood in the long run, and I trust that in my final moments I'm going to make every attempt to combine humor and insight in my epitaph and fail miserably.
I've luckily met John, a person who can endure me for longer periods of time than I can endure myself, so before this dips too deeply into a depressing tone, don't pity me at all. Pity him for all the wrong words I will spell at the Scrabble table, the messages I will misinterpret or even conjure from nothingness and react to, but most of all pity him having to listen to rants similar to these on a daily basis, maybe even hourly; I have no idea what I do to tip the scales into such favorable conditions considered 'long term happiness', but he seems as happy as I am, which is believe it or not a happiness I hadn't seen coming. Aside from the short doses of laughter I administer to myself, he's dreadfully handsome, consistently patient, and in his cantankerous way provides what I hope to be a continually interesting environment for entertainment for the both of us.
Where's the funny story? - what I heard over my shoulder, and what I've come to expect interjected in my few paragraphs of self centered prose...
I was fifteen, and was at a party held by my best friend in the world then and now. I believe I drank less than three warm, skanked beers. In my defense, they were Heffenreffer's or 'head wreckers' and they lived up to their expectations. I'd also smoked half a marijuana cigarette with a friend, something all teenagers were doing then, I was nervous, especially at parties. I left the party, returned home to my Mom's house, and visibly intoxicated sat in a rocking chair and prepared myself for the interrogation process. I accidentally left my jacket pocket open and had exposed my bottle of Visine, noting that in some cases it's impossible to 'get the red out'. Mom yelled, questioned, and threatened to limit my freedoms, and tell my best friends Mom what had happened at her house while she was gone. Facing such actions, it's natural to feel complete nausea, and I got up and rushed to the bathroom. With my Mom blocking the way to the door, I throw up all over myself, the hallway, and most importantly, my Mom. Although I'm practically blacked out drunk, the sensation and taste of skanked warm beer coming out of your nose has a strangely sobering effect. I don't remember anything else after that for the rest of the night.
If you're thinking this isn't a funny story? You're completely wrong, you just need to hear me tell it. This is a fact. You may hear other accounts of this story but for some reason, I've never heard a version of this story that makes me laugh more than my version of this story, and I was hardly even there. That's my point I guess, it's not the story, it's the story teller that's important, and if you want me to tell a factual account recalling the horrible parts and tell a horrible story that will hardly be remembered? That's your choice. If you want a factual account of the same event with emphasis on the entertaining aspects, with maybe a little bit of embellishment for the sake of entertainment? See? I thought so.