First off: I wanted you all to get a good look at this very tiny horse. This is NOT a pony. I repeat: not a pony. You might think I’m trying to fleece you, but I’m not.
Confession: I sometimes stare at this picture when I’m feeling down; it has that instant effect of uplifting that, say, eating sugared dots of candy off a thin strip of paper, or watching inspirational videos on youtube at 2 am (my roommate did this for at least an hour the other day, by the way) has. Don’t these things make YOU proud to be alive today?
I’m on a bus to Baltimore as I type this, presented with yet another reason I’m glad to be on the BoltBus right now and not a Chinatown: a working internet connection and hand-sanitizer in the bathroom. It doesn’t get any better than this. Also, I passed a person on this bus on my way to the hand-sanitizer-equipped lavatory who’s actually reading How to Make Friends and Influence People. I suppose there’s no way to tell, save striking up an actual conversation and asking, if this person is reading said book to be ironic or because it’s information he actually thinks can be gleaned from a book, but for the sake of this blog, let’s assume the latter. Because reading books to be ironic is so 2009.
I’ve been listening to the audiobook of Tina Fey’s Bossypants, because I was too lazy to go to a store and actually buy the real book-shelveable deal (rare for me, since maybe the thing I’m best at in the world is buying lots of books I intend to read and never actually reading them, or taking a very long time to read them, and hoarding them instead so my bookshelf looks more impressive and I look smarter to those Dumbs who think that owning lots of books makes you smart.) Anyway–I had to stop listening to it at a certain point because I was laughing too hard, with headphones in my ears, and I know that since no one else is hearing what the person-listening-to-a-very-funny-book-with-headphones is hearing, this person (me) just looked bat-shit.
If you haven’t already read (or listened to) it, I think you should. But, do it alone, or in the company of close friends who don’t care if you start laughing for reasons they aren’t privy to and then can’t stop because the funniness (that looks misspelled, doesn’t it?) of the material, compounded with your embarrassment at laughing like a crazy in front of other people, will only make you laugh harder, which will only make you look extra-crazy. But, ultimately, even if you are crazy, as long as you’re having TONS OF FUN, who cares? RIGHT? RIGHT?!
I think blogs are weird, because, well–some things demand inflection to be understood, and if you don’t know me, and you’re reading this, maybe you are actually starting to think I’m crazy right now. Or, maybe I am starting to think you’re crazy, but you’ll never know it, because you can’t hear the tone of my voice.
Some other notable examples of public embarrassment that I’ll share with you even though I probably shouldn’t: I shat myself when I was ten, in my first (bright yellow) bikini at a hotel pool; in eight grade, a friend pointed out in a crowd of other more popular girls, and boys, who I desperately wanted to impress, that I had stuffed my bra. When I denied it, she sauntered over to me, reached down my shirt, and pulled out the several wads of tit-enlarging tissue I had wedged carefully inside; oh–here’s another bikini one–getting my period while cave-crawling(or some weird cruise-excursion like that), in a light blue bikini, with my older brother, and having to explain to him that the reason I had to stay perfectly still and not uncross my legs was that there were little rivulets of period blood trickling down from my vagina that I had to trap between my thighs before they could pool around my ankles. There was also no bathroom around, nor had I come prepared with a change of clothes. This is why you shouldn’t do anything, ever, in a bikini, if you’re over the age of, say, nine. You just never know. Oh wait, one more: I got my period on a friend’s parent’s couch, where I’d spent the night; instead of owning up and having to have that super awkward conversation in which I’d be forced to divulge my history of heavy first-day bleeding, I just turned it over instead like it never happened if you couldn’t see it. These were, and are, wonderful people who’ve been nothing but kind to me, a second family since I’ve known them. And I bled on their couch and let them feed me a homemade breakfast the next morning and said nothing. What a jackass. That one might just belong in the ‘examples of my poor moral compass’ section of this blog, to come at an unspecified later date in time.
I could go on, but I won’t–not right now. I tell you these stories to give you the opportunity to feel either superior, or less alone. Or both.
I’m going to give my audiobook another go. The thing is, I just can’t care anymore if a bus full of people I’ll never see again thinks I’m a lunatic. Because I know the truth is that they’re all lunatics. Every last one. Raving mad.