Stop & Smell The Ridiculous

Here's what happens when I stop having fun and start taking myself too seriously: I miss all the good stuff.  Pretty obvious statement, I know; but I have an uncanny knack for getting wound up tighter than a noose - which I will quite frequently hang myself with.

The fact of the matter is there's so much fun stuff in life I miss when I get hung up (see what I just did?) on the small stuff, which is one of the reasons I think I drank in the first place.  It helped bevel the edges of my anxiety so I could chill out long enough to breath.  Invariably, I'd almost always overshoot the mark, but there was a window of coherence - usually between that second and fourth drink - where I could breathe and appreciate what I'd been too stressed to acknowledge in my habitual frenetic state of being.  I called these my "aaaaaaaaah" moments, and I coveted them.

Since I don't have alcoholic beverages as my life support system anymore, I have to find alternative ways to comprehend serenity, and it usually comes in the way of laughter.  They say laughter is the greatest medicine, and I'm inclined to agree.  Granted, I laugh at the most inappropriate things in the world, but that's probably because I don't know how to process feelings like a normal person.  I'm sure my Twitter feed is like a career condom, essentially preventing any sperm of talent from fertilizing the seed of advancement and birthing success.  But laughter is how I know peace.  It's light, it's fun, it keeps me alive - in the face of where I find my humor, I say this unapologeticly.  At the end of the day, it comes down to survival for me. 

Recently I've had my head too far up my ass with worry to notice anything, least of all anything funny.  Fear has put the blinders on.  Feelings of not being good enough have consumed me lately, and it's paralyzing.  I suffer from a disease of perception, and from time-to-time, it's hard for me to maintain perspective.  I know we all go through it - those crises of confidence that wear us down like rain on wooden shingles - but when I'm in the shit, it's practically impossible to get out of my head and see the bigger picture.  

Sure, this is my life, but there's a difference between being the center of my universe, and insisting I'm the center of The Universe.  We're all in this thing together, and I'm most understanding and empathetic to that idea when I can get out of myself long enough to notice ridiculous absurdities.  Sometimes it takes a fresh pair of eyes, and, fortunately for me, my brother just rolled into town, and he's like a truffle pig when it comes to unearthing life's little nuances.  Take, for example, the following:  

I chuckled to myself, and then continued about my business, when my phone buzzed with another text:

The text read:  Just walked by and did the polite thing - gave this nice old man the head nod.  Then I realized he was plastic.  Carpool dummy: 1, Brian 0

This pic jogged my memory, and I remembered stumbling across this car parked unsuspiciously in front of a grade school playground in my neighborhood.  (Not creepy at all…)

Playgrounds make me think of kids, and kids make me think of puppets:

Puppets make me think of the these two characters I met at a puppet show… they were not performers:

This is not Halloween.  This is a Tuesday night in Hollywood. 

Weirdos make me think of Hollywood, and Hollywood makes me think of this bad omen, painted on the sidewalk in front of my favorite Thai food restaurant:

Street Roaches

Sidewalks make me think of dead baby dolls...

And dead dolls make me think of decapitated dolls in truck beds:

Death makes me think of Mondays, and the napkin I found on the commissary floor at work:

Guns make me think of bullets, and bullets make me think of what was waiting for me at my desk upon returning from my lunch break at work the other day:

And work reminds me that we're all a bunch of squirrels trying to get a nut, but with a little luck, some of us might end up with a chocolate chip cookie.

After a tangent like that, I'm out of my head and laughing again, and, if not for but a moment, the world seems bearable.

Virgins Feel… Different

It's Monday, and as it happens, this past weekend birthed an unintentional relationship for a friend of mine - otherwise known as fodder for my blog.  I love a good story that starts out with, "Okay, don't judge me…" because right off the bat, I know I'm in the presence of a kindred spirit.

So I settle in - make myself good and comfortable - and announce to my buddy he's in the trust bubble.  He proceeds to tell me he called this girl ("just a friend") to go with him to a buddy's birthday party on Saturday night.  Since she likes him more than just a friend, he gives her the option: meet there, take separate Uber's home OR meet at his house, drive together, take one Uber back to his place, and she could sleep on the couch.

What?

Seriously, this was his best logic, and he was really crossing his fingers she was going to choose option number one.  His words.

She chose option number two.

Now, my buddy doesn't think he's charming, but he's an idiot.  He's great looking and he's funny.  Just add alcohol, and he's a real panty-dropper.  But he tries to tell me anyway that, contrary to his best effort (so as not to lead this poor girl on) he came off like the Dos Equis guy instead.  You ever have those nights when you're just on your A-game?  Well, this was his night, I guess - and it just happened to be the one night he didn't want to be impressive.  Sure.

First red flag in the story is: every time he walks up to the bar to order drinks for he and his just-a-friend, she disappears to the bathroom.  Instinctively I think she's skiing, but turns out, it's not "just like smoking when you drink."  The real reason she kept disappearing is because she's twenty.

The night continues, so does their consumption, one thing leads to another, and they're home bound in an Uber.  At this point he's still trying to convince me she was couch-bound - but now he's thinking maybe it's okay to make out with her?

Well, we all know making out leads to babies.  Clothes started coming off almost immediately after they crossed the threshold of his apartment, and right as he was about to find himself on the road to the Cabbage Patch with Just-A-Friend, he hit a wall - hers.  He says to me (and I quote), "I kept thinking to myself: I don't remember it being this hard to enter…"

My first thought is, "Moron!  You need to take the tampon out first!"  But then it dawns on me, he just fucked the Twenty Year-Old Virgin.

I remembered my first time - laying there on that dorm room bed with my boyfriend from high school.  I remember it for two reasons:

1) Getting fucked for the first time is not dissimilar from a volcano erupting.  It's explosive (physically and emotionally), sometimes there's lava, and if the boy's not clean, it can leave you burning and shooting fire out of your pee hole.

2) Still, I definitely imagined what dinner parties with our friends would be like - how all our kids would run around and play together - the kind of wife I would make (whether or not I would take his last name), where we would live, and how many kids we would have - all while having sex.

Point being, this chick is about to go straight-up Gloria from Wedding Crashers on his ass.  But warnings can't be retroactive, so instead I just make fun of him.

Moral of the story is three-fold:

• Don't ask out Just-A-Friend's
• Don't casually fuck virgins if you don't want to get married.  (Do your research).
• Don't tell me your stories.  I will use them as entertainment.