A celebrity died this week, of natural celebrity causes. You probably heard all about it. No, it wasn’t Puck from the Real World, although that guy really had it comin’. Anyway, a few days have passed and I feel it is safe to once again resume talking about myself. I know, I know, there is NOTHING you can’t make about YOU, if you really put your mind to it. I could have talked about how the guy who used to ring me up at Campus Convenience resembled the dead actor. I could wistfully recall how many times in the past I had thought that. And how I won’t find myself thinking it any more, not without a sense of something having been taken from me. That’s so tragic!
At least his memorial contained some crudite, by the look of it. Being deceased is no reason to neglect your health.
What else can I make about “me”? Let’s look into social media, shall we? Food pictures ehhhhhh….baby flinging….some complaining. That’s too easy. Whenever anyone complains, there is always someone right there to tell them that *their* troubles are far worse. That reminds me, I need to update my pity spreadsheet. It pays to keep track of who has the most “woe is me.” I would not want to exhaust my compassion with overexertion. I might have to go to a spa.
The news of the day is not any more helpful. I click open the NYT and I am confronted with scores of worldly developments, not a one of them mentions me! In the crushing absence of any kind of validation, how can I be sure I even exist?!? Why should I read this damn thing at all? Oh, there is that Mr. Hoffman again, right above the fold. Still dead, apparently. Poor fucker. If I have learned anything binging on countless episodes of Intervention, it’s that you need to accept the amazing gift being given to you today.
I love intervention, the screechy, scabby people plodding along toward their acoustic guitar 90 day wellness. I love the interventionists with their lined faces, droopy moustaches and catch phrases. “If feeling bad solved anything, it would already be solved.” After watching 20 episodes in a row, I start to feel I could *be* an interventionist. “Will you accept this gift today? No, it’s not a METHOVER. You already had one of those. As much as we love a pop eyed, knife cheeked weirdo, it is not working for you, hon. And you need to wear something besides sweatpants.”
I looked into the qualifications of an interventionist. UGH, cucumber masks won’t cut it. You have to “go to school” and then be “poorly paid.” I am already doing that!
Imagine that, free to resume talking about myself, and I found I didn’t really have anything to say! Nothing left to do but turn off the mind, and enjoy the fine, relaxing musics of the type my granny would have liked.
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