A fellow with a moustache
Clearly I received no motivation from KT. (What a little bitch, that one.) 6 months since my last post. Half a year has gone by! Many animals and insects are birthed/hatched, mature, mate, eat their young, and die in that time span. They live complete, full lives. I've never even eaten any of my young. I've never even had any young! God, what a waste. (And I'm sure we're all tired of reading posts about not posting. How postmodern and boring.) When I turned 23 - an age of which I am no longer - my dad told me he'd already had three kids by the time he reached said birthday. Three little things! Just imagine the additional credit card debt I'd accrue with that financial load. Oh, but I hear they're wonderful. And that everyone should try one - at least once.
Soon after undergrad I decided I didn't want to talk to anyone who was married, had kids, or owned their own home. Honestly, what did we have to discuss? But, realizing how quickly that whittled away at my list of friends and relatives, I eased off. However, the sentiment somewhat remains. So many of my friends, family members, and former classmates are "growing up" and doing the adult thing. They have career jobs and fiancés and fiancées and pregnancies and health insurance. There's only so deep I can dive into a conversation about mortgages and teething before I realize I won't have enough oxygen in the tank to resurface if I attempt to descend any further.
How long is it acceptable for me to continue to achieve remarkably little? Because, let's be honest, that's what I've done. Thank the angels that I'm still in my twenties. People will forgive you for most things while you're still young. And you've still got a good head of hair. And I know I'm covered at least till 30 (perhaps I can stretch it beyond that - thanks, head of hair).
- You said what? Oh, but you're young.
- Haven't had your big break yet? You're young. Don't worry. It'll happen.
- You're finished already? (sigh) You're so young, aren't you.
I bet I can even shoot a couple people in these last few years and avoid any prison time. So I will remember to take advantage of my youth while it is still with me. But at some point there will be a switch from earnest and more than a little adorable to pathetic and more than a little creepy. Mark my words. Taking the 7 train a few stops to the Sunnyside Center Cinema on Christmas Eve to watch Disney's Enchanted by yourself, only for the film to be broken and have to walk home - that's sad but kind of cute. Now if I were a 50-year-old? Forget it. Coy glances across a packed subway car. Twenties = Cute! Fifties = Psychopath!
Yet all this horse chatter doesn't explain why I haven't updated the blog. I guess there weren't enough things ushering in the end times.
"What?!" you say.
"Oh, did I miss something?" I say.
"A black man was elected president! What other sign do you need?" you say. "Were you waiting for a GAY black man to rise to the office? An HIV+, gay black man that pissed on the American flag during his acceptance speech at the Republican convention?"
"Well, I guess not," I say. "But all that seems a bit much."
"Well, it seems a bit much to make your point," I say. "Somewhat belabored. A little too focused on shock value."
"But at least we're talking about it."
And then you smile. Tenderly I slide my hand under your blouse, and we attempt to make a Hope baby.
That said, I did spend a good portion of the year trying to convince some people that Obama was not the Antichrist, while they tried to convince me he wasn't Jesus Christ. But a true believer remains faithful in the Gospel of Change. Amen and amen. History having won out and the final court cases challenging his birth records dwindling down like the warm, dying embers of a winter's fire, I'm happy to be making my purchase of the Penthouse Obama commemorative edition.
Now what to write about it? Oh, that's right - myself! I'm a little sick. Drinking lots of orange juice. Sucking on some Cold-EEZE (It's homeopathic!) and using my Zicam Gel Swabs (It's homeopathic too! As long as it doesn't kill my sense of taste and smell. Uh oh). It's sad when a violent coughing fit is the most exercise I've done in a week. A month. A year. But I should stick around on this earth long enough to get out an ushering-in-the-end-of-the-year-is-ushering-in-the-end-times post.
No promises though. So mourn me now.