Top five things I do every day that you don’t and how it is ok to feel about them
But before we get to that, I would like to offer a final explanation for my belief that thinking is better than feeling. You might remember the beginning of this monologue (I’d prefer not to call it a diatribe, but whatever-- maybe we can go with sermon) from this post. To summarize, I sometimes have trouble apologizing because my attitude is mistaken for flippant when I intend to signify mutual forgiveness. I mean to convey “I’m over it, I hope you’re over it, are we good? Ok great,” and instead am interpreted as, “I don’t care, you might be hurt but I’m not, so I piss on you.”
But here’s the deal, people: if I say I’m sorry, please have the courtesy to believe me. And don’t judge me by how you feel about what I feel, judge me by what you think about what I say.
Why? Because do you know what I think about all your feelings? They’re so unoriginal. They’re the most unoriginal thing about you, and you are a pretty unoriginal person. Yeah, you feel unique? Guess what? Thousands, millions of people have felt unique before you. You feel sad? Lonely? Content? Depressed? Overjoyed? So has everyone else. So don’t tell me you feel upset about some situation, for God’s sake; I’m bored already. Everyone feels upset about situations. Tell me what you think. Tell me what you want to do-- because no one has ever thought these specific things and done these specific things before. But everyone on God’s green earth has felt the way you feel. So if that’s all you want to talk about, go tell someone who likes hearing the same thing all the time, over and over again.
Basically, I’m talking to all you women out there. Feelings are so boring. So start thinking, you know, with your brain? And stop feeling. And for God’s sake, don’t even think of telling me how this makes you feel. I swear I’d rather drown myself in a shallow pool of my own urine.
I am going to be such a good husband. On to the list:
Top five things I do every day that I bet you don’t, and acceptable ways to describe how I feel about them
1. Drive to work in a car that is 14 years old. Plus, the previous owner, who is also my landlord, who is also my mother, who also gave me the car for free this summer, crashed it, or let one or more of her dumb sons crash it (no, actually, I never did-- that was my dumb brothers) and it’s pretty beat up. It makes me feel like Ace Ventura, only with better hair. Or maybe I mean worse hair. Well, anyway, more mundane hair. And smaller teeth. See? It’s ok to say that, because feeling like Ace Ventura is not a common thing. This is not a thing people have boring heart-to-hearts about because no one ever felt like Ace Ventura, because he wasn’t a real person. So it’s ok to say you feel like a fictional character. Except to feel like Leo DiCaprio in Titanic as the king of the world, or like Alice falling down the rabbit hole, because, yeah, dumbass, my cousin has said that before you. And he’s seven and has water in his brain.
2. Eat three soft-boiled eggs every morning for breakfast. Sure, they might be a little slimy, and sure they might smell a little like a dusty fart, but they got plenty of protein. Which is why they make me feel like a domesticated pro wrestler without the roids. I remember an old baseball teammate telling me about how his brother had three eggs for breakfast every morning to put on weight because he was a wrestler, and running out of ways to eat them, so he just ate them raw, and I remember thinking “man, your brother sounds like a douche bag,” but I didn’t say that because the guy was bigger than I was. The only time I ate raw eggs was when my rich friend offered to buy me two thirty packs in college to eat one in the shell, so that was obviously a great deal (if you’ve been to college, you know I’m right).
Sidenote: my Microsoft Works Word Processor just auto-corrected douchebag to douche bag. I think this is either the hippest word processor program ever, or my computer is making fun of me. Or maybe both.
3. Have a well-motivated bowel movement between 10 and 11 am every day. This makes me feel two things: regular, and clever for thinking of the term ‘regular.’ And no, that is not why I poop at the same time every day. I just do.
4. Eat a lunch prepared by my mother. Yes, indeed, she is not just my transportation source and landlord, but also a hell of a chef. And when I got back from work today, it was just in time for a delicious plate of spaghetti. And oh yeah, remember those soft-boiled eggs from earlier? Yeah, she made those too. So how do I feel about that?
The perfect blend of the seemingly contradictory smug and embarrassed. Hey, I’ve got a lunch that everybody envies, but at the same time, I’m twenty-one and my mother is making all of my meals. Actually, my feelings are deep and complicated on this matter. I feel alone, and yet united to the world. I feel complicated and deceptive, and yet cathartically honest. I feel alone and together.
There, see how gay that was? I eat the lunch prepared by my mother, and I feel Roman, because the Romans had a matrilineal society, and mothers were important to Romans. So even though my nose is a generic Irish pug and I fricking detest toga parties, I like olives, pita bread and my mom. And vomitoriums, at times.
5. Gauge the traffic to my blog according to IP address. That’s right, I know who you are. That makes me feel like Norman Bates without the shower. And if you’ve heard that before, if you think that doesn’t prove my point, if you’ve heard of this emotion before, well then… I guess I was talking too loud while looking through the pinhole in your cubicle. No, over here, on the other side.
And we’ll stop this before your feelings get the best of you and you scream for the janitor, because he’ll find me here for sure. Damn feelings.