I LOVE TO:
Drink Mandarin and Tonics until I am convinced I am fluent in Swahili. Oh yes. And I’ll talk your ear off. Pops and clicks and shit. Don’t dare me, ‘cause it’ll happen. Then we’ll all look stupid. GOD, that’d be great. Yes?
Tell stories about the many monkeys of my life. Sure, it sounds like I’ve had some sort of bestiality thing going with chimps, but that’s not what I’m referring to (this time). I’ve been a variety of monkeys in my life. Different stages, different experience sets, almost different personalities altogether. And for each monkey I have been, there exists a collection of stories explaining that monkey. Mostly for my own benefit, but I LOVE to tell stories to other people too. Especially if it involves something brazenly stupid that I’ve done. It feels cathartic in a way, as if these stories serve as an explanation to you, about who I am and where I am going. I’d rather be an understood idiot than some moron built by vaguery. Wow. Apparently ‘vaguery’ is not a word.
Well it is now goddamnit.
Sing while I drive. Perhaps off key. Perhaps while giving the ‘thumbs up’ to the soccer mom next to me at a light. Perhaps while making an illegal left turn, hitting the high notes on the James Laid CD with perfection. Maybe I’m trying to bust out some Rastafarian Styleee Mon while kickin’ the Marley. It matters not: the content. What matters is that I love to sing while I drive. Or when you drive, as long as I can control the stereo.
Eat pancakes. That’s all. Not much to that one. Pancakes are fucking delicioso. That’s Spanish. Mmmmm… Spanish pancakes…
Act like I know a-lot about important things. Not related to the “act like I understand advanced mathematics” thing, which bothers me to fits. No, no, no. Nothing like that. This is where I pretend to be an expert in some esoteric yet important field of study. Like Sparrow mating rituals. The origins of the wafer-thin humor used in all those dreadful Crocodile Dundee movies. Or the contextual history behind the use of quantum physics and game theory by the Wu-Tang Clan. If I’m having a good day, you won’t smell my bullshit. If I’m off, the whole conversation will end with me getting punched in the face by someone. Probably a stranger within earshot.
Read about sharks and shark-related shit. Boring, I know. But it HAS to make my list. I have an obsession with sharks. A dark, disturbing, borderline sexual (but definitely affectionate) fixation on the things. I read, remember, and spout the information on cue. I LOOOOVE to read about attacks (kinda morbid, sure, but that’s just your opinion) anywhere in the world. It’s an obsession which makes even me wonder about myself. And that’s okay.
Buy new colognes. I am a cologne whore. I have approximately 50 different scents in rotation as I type this. Perhaps 20 more are packaged away. And I have back-up bottles for my favorite fragrances. It’s a bit messed up, but I’ve been wearing cologne for the majority of my life. I have no idea what I actually smell like. And neither does anyone else. I wonder if my pheromones even make an effort anymore. Whatever.
Drink coffee first thing in the morning. Man oh man. Nothing like a steamy cup o’ joe first thing in the morning to kick start my daymare. A little go-go juice to keep me from sleeping on my keyboard is like a gift from the gods of white-collar labor. Sometimes I’ll throw a doughnut in there, or a breakfast taco, just to add to the exciting morning-mix. Then I read the entire interweb, front to back, trying to entertain myself. All that morning gloriousness starts with the hot-water-fied ground beans from some strange land. A foreign place where four year-olds are paid with bat-beatings to drag around baskets full of my future indulgence, managed by whatever local mafia called ‘dibs’ on the bean farms. Thank you WTO, you’re the best!
Sit somewhere and shoot the shit. I don’t do this as much as I used to. This requires the exact, necessary company. Like a tissue match, not everyone makes shit-shooting company for everyone else. Some combos work, some don’t. It seems to work best with someone, or some group of people, who will listen to each other and be constructively critical yet not judgmental. There’s a BIG difference between the two in my mind. One can be critical of my ideas without dragging in subjective denouncement/cheerleading. Critique can lead to a discussion, a back-and-forth, an exchange of ideas. A judgment ends with a period. BAM. Not open for discussion. As in:
Me: You know, I’m not so sure that man (used in the general “man = human” sense, but I would probably leave it as ‘man’ to see if I got a rise out of anyone probing me for imaginary misogyny) really needs to find fulfillment through materialistic gain, I mean, can’t you just get hammered and pretend you’re the shit instead of suffering through the rigors of being the shit?
Judgmental1: That’s just stupid Craig. And so is your drunk ass. Next.
Judgmental2: I love it! And your drunk ass! Next topic please.
Critical 1: Oh, so are you trying to say that the ACTUAL achievements have just as much value as the DRUNKENLY PERCEIVED achievements? Hm. How would society move forward as a whole if we’re all fucked up and bragging about lies? You can’t build football stadiums from blackout brags now can you? Seriously, can you?
Critical2: Right on brother! But it needs to be tempered a bit. Life gets too complicated to bog ourselves down with ONLY the physical environment. We need to find ways to reach out to ourselves within the confines of our own mind. Sure, whiskey would probably do the trick. But so would copious amounts of amphetamines. Am I right? Whoo!
Repeatedly win the lotto. Well, this is a bit of an impossibility, seeing as how I don’t play the damn thing, but I’m guessing that I would LOVE to do it. Unless the prizes were along the lines of “daily ass-whoopin’s for life” or “a new STD each month for thirty years.” Those prizes are pretty weak. And, come to think of it, I don’t really need to win the lotto to get them either.
My promise is complete. Poof, bitches. (sorry about that, I’ve been watching season 2 of the Chapelle’s Show. Killing. Me.)