Right now I (momentarily) find myself the closest to my own (momentary) definition of an insane person. In this state, I step outside of myself and become my proto-me, I send pertinent e-mails out because if I don’t I’ll lose money in an unrelated partition of my life, I smile at things that I don’t find funny for the same reason, I abstain from looking from looking at pornography because of possible socioeconomic enslavement of the actors, I refrain from downloading music of deceased persons (out of respect, man) and other strange things. Pretending it all makes a difference amps up my drive for a few more hours until I slink back into my real, more pragmatic ways which are in every way the opposite of above. Caffeine & etc., bringing to you & me, bursts of youth. If we only got paid to be humans (inconsistent, indecisive, superstitious, afraid, insane).
One job I think I would thoroughly relish is writing absurd commercials which advertise products which seem equally as absurd, but the product itself would make life less absurd. Absurd humor is the best kind. I constantly curl up on the couch, grinning and snickering to myself while I scheme and imagine the endless amounts of childish entertainment that I would derive watching people’s reactions to my nonsensical commercials. The reaction that would give me the greatest pleasure would be from the person who had already seen my absurd commercials before, been shocked or whatever first response they had, then they’d smile and show it to their friends, just to see their reaction. I would then put those people in a commercial, the action of showing the person the commercial on tv or Youtube or whatever, and these interlocutors would then be hit by a comet, and then I would advertise something about paying attention to what scientists say. Delicious!
The next P. Madison commercial: investing in Macedonia. But that’s not absurd.
In the interest of upgrading my travel mettle, I recently subjected myself to two vaccinations. Vaccination one will protect me for five years against against yellow fever, vaccination two will protect me for five years against typhoid fever. I feel so fucking 2007. A 2007 question for today, 4 July, is do I have more chance in being murdered by a terrorist or by yellow fever?
I love life — so for today I think that means that I love wiretapping, vaccinations, Diane Rehm, Hillary Clinton, Scooter Libby, self-righteousness, non compos mentis constitutional arguments from both the Supreme Court and the Vice President, Africa and expatriatism. Happy birthday, United States!
Just take three or four hits off of this economic and political maneuvering crack and you’ll feel better.
On my slightly antiquated but still foxy powerbook, I have a chia pet on my dashboard. This is a logical chia pet instead of one that truly exists in this world, but I still have to water him every day. This dashboard is logical. Everything that I have on it not real, my mind makes it real. The dictionary, the song lyrics widget, the calendar, the calculator — they all do real things, but only if I say so. They will sit there patiently waiting for their twenty seconds of fame each week. I seem to have lost enough touch with reality to have placed school in a logical safe, where I’ve forgotten the combination. This university does not get any dedicated fame this week, I also plan to not give it any for the next few. Only one more month, and then the adventure begins.
I think I made it through March. I am still recovering and it is the twelfth day of April. I choose to dwell on last month.
As a habitual user of the English language, I have decided that March is by far the coolest sounding month. It it is the bohemian month, not of these lame -ary or -ber suffxes. I am aware that there are other endings and unique months, but nothing is more beautiful and peculiarly symmetrical than something like March 5, 19xx or 20xx. For the record, through years of research and baked pies of my insight, April is by far the best.
I want to throw up my arms and become a tenured journalist.
I have an unhealthy obsession with the word “wonky”. I dream of ways to use it in every imaginable way, for ways to work it into serious discourses about reproductive rights, and into a scientific journal. I would also like fror opportunities to dress someone down with it etc. I want to write an opinion column and use wonky in every sentence. I would like for the word of the day every day to be wonky. I want to write a book about wonky and have Wonky be the main character. I would like for more people to name their pets wonky, and also name their other nameable things wonky. I would like to wonky to reenter the English vocabulary as a verb, so then we can be even cooler. Wonky will have its day, and here is nothing we can do to stop it. It is 2007 and wonkyism and wonkyphobia make me sick. I certainly know I do not want to be sick anymore. Let’s all do our part for wonky.
Outdoor education in sixth grade. One of the classes was outdoor cooking. I cannot even remember what we ate, but it was one of the best meals that I have ever consumed. Two reasons: my then-best friend and I had a lot of fun making it, and we were already ravenous from not eating very much earlier in the day. Also, we destroyed a roll of aluminum foil thanks to our eleven-year-old ineptitude. All I remember about the teacher was that he was angry we harmed the roll, and he had glasses like me. If I strain, remembering more works: he also had terrible handwriting, and he taught workshop/woodshop.
I tremble a little when the good parts of childhood come back. I was so in love with the idea of seeing friends, I would just pack up my inhaler and some pajamas at the end of every week in expectation of fun. Even though I’d be sick all night due to the dog and its infernal hair, and even sicker due to the orgy of junk food, it didn’t matter. I think that’s the closest to nonfamilial love I’ve been, beating any that shameful whipped-love for a girlfriend, or bottomlessly-interested love for a hobby or object. Relationships with friends probably always fell just short of love, and on the opposite end it was not hate or filled with hate either (for me), because otherwise it would be infinitely strange that has always failed to generate strong emotions (again, for me).
It is not nostalgia, or regret whatsoever. It is a wish to just for a few seconds remember more of it — some kind of vicarious stammer mixed with an elder compassion. I suppose I have to write them down when they come back to me.
I despise snow days. Once, I dreamt that it snowed snow days instead of snowing during the day. I can’t remember if I was happy then. I’m guessing it was the time that a snow day meant running outside sledding down an enormous hill which also happened to be safe. How safe are snow days?