I’m sipping on a quadruple vodka, courtesy of Travis Gertz. If that doesn’t spell trouble, it certainly spells a night of entertainment. Don’t worry, it’s on me (or it might be later). Pending purge.
I feel compelled to tell you that I lost my mojo. The thing that I carried around me like a horny hummingbird in my ribcage. The thing that compelled me to get off my ass, move to the couch, sit on my ass again and tippety-tap on my little amigo, the keyboard. Write like I mean it. Write my little heart out. Write like I cared. And I have to tell you, kids, I have not not written because I have not not cared. Wait. In English: I still care, in fact I care too much, but now it’s about things in the world like sad and dying babies, like oil pipelines, and wasted shower water, and toxic chemicals in baby shampoo, and dumb politicians whose names start with M, R, S, N, H, and probably ever other conceivable letter that means shitty ass fuck.
I’ve been aching to write about something. To poke a stick at our lugubrious human oddities. To laugh in the face of stifling tradition. To get drunk and stupid and talk about things that would make my mother embarrassed of me. But the disgusting thing is, friends, that in my last four to six months I have done little more than read the goddamned news and chew on my bottom lip. Some people find that cute, but it’s actually a sign of a nervous breakdown. That and nudity. Ask Jason Russell.
You also know this, friends: once said news has been read, it can not be unread. I have opened my mouth wide and like a fire hose, sucked of the fetid nectar of bad news headlines. I have drunk the poison and like toluene, it causes minor birth defects and a really strong case of bad breath. I am the human sponge.
I have meant to pour out my angry thoughts about the state of the world on these pages, to rally a call to online-petition arms, to speak out against the injustices of a world and stand in the cold at rallies for Occupy, the bike lane rally, the robocall fraud rally, the port blocking rally, that one for the sandwiches. But I didn’t even move.
I didn’t write.
And I didn’t move.
Paralyzed like a cat staring down a pissed-off skunk. Waiting for the shit to hit the rim. Did you know America plans to have DRONES flying above all major city hubs by 2015??
Oh my god, this catharsis feels so good. It’s like staying in the shower an extra three minutes and watching that precious fresh water teardrop down the drain forever.
So my friends, at last I am at a cross roads. I cried in bed a few days (don’t worry, I spread them out for Travis so he never knew when to expect it). I drank a lot of liquor (I’m finding vodka is my happy drink). I blocked all my news feeds from Twitter, Facebook, email. I subscribed to Eckhart Tolle’s meditation minute, oh and Tiny Buddha’s daily inspiration emails. Deleted that shit; it wasn’t helping. I just wanted to smack the author for being such a optimistic peace-loving chump. No offence, peace.
Instead, with the support of a select few individuals I decided to limit my caring to things solely within my control. You know who you are and I can’t thank you enough for reminding me that it’s not my responsibility to plaster bandaids all over mother nature’s knees and it certainly isn’t my job to suck on the firehouse of bad news all day long. I can’t catch Kony (is he even alive?) and I can’t prevent Mubarek’s former PM from running in the election or stand in the way of a bitumen pipeline to the northern seas, and I can’t fire Harper (what a goddamned idiot). I can’t even neuter all the poor cats and dogs doling out their miserable lives on the street. Also, I can’t get rid of bread bag ties. Yes, I am a goddamned bleeding heart liberal. What of it? There are a ton of things I just cannot do. But I can use this pellet-sized brain to do something. To form some sort of logical plan for my own sanity, which effectively translates into your sanity (ask my friends) and your future Question Everything viewing pleasure.
So here are my reckonings. Are you ready for this shit? Act surprised like you just stumbled on a gem.
- I don’t know if I believe in any god. I do however, believe in science.
- I believe that we are tiny specks of molecular dust. We don’t matter in the long run. And neither does this silly earth.
- That said, if all we get is a sprint to the finish line, then there are people and things in our lives that matter. We have to do everything in our power to love and cherish those people because we don’t get them very long.
- Work is bullshit—unless you love it. Chores and taxes are bullshit—unless you love those, too. Media? Bullshit—unless it’s effective. Politics? Bullshit—unless they actually update the definition of ‘change’.
- The environment is fairly resilient and is waiting to launch a counter-attack on our asses in the form of floods/tornadoes/hurricanes/disease for us bitch slapping it around for the last two-hundred years. I could join an environmental group or just grab some popcorn.
- Do things you love to do and don’t wait for it to be a sunny day or you’ll be ninety-two sitting upright in a little metal bed watching Jerry Springer and wishing you could still get an erection while gumming down stale peanuts.
- Like Carl Sagan, I am mystified by that wonder of the universe and the fact that I get to inhabit this short-legged body and drink booze for like fifty more years.
- We can make changes by being passionate about things, but not by being angry about them.
- We can use our skills to share our message but we don’t have to bring a soap box to stand on all the time. It gets old.
- We get old. And that shit sucks but it’s just a part of life and we still have tits, so it’s all good. Dudes—you guys have penises. Rejoice.
- We should spend our time not being shitty to each other. Doesn’t mean we waste our time with people who waste ours, but we’re nicer than we feel like being, because it makes the world a tiny bit nicer to live in. And each of us is stuck here for enough time to really develop a negative attitude unless we help each other out.
I can’t fix it all, dammit. If there is a god, he smirked and handed me a hammer in the womb and said, “Here Rachel, don’t fuck shit up”, but I’m laying down the hammer. I’d rather pick up a pen. Or a keyboard. Or a keytar for that matter. It’s not up to me to fix things. It’s just up to me to be a bit of a goof so we can all hang out and be friends and go bowling.
This is the gospel of Gertz. Go in peace, my friends.
Now I can get back to writing about meaningful things like boobs and cat cartoons.
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