I know this comes as no shock, but I’m not that much of a deep thinker. I’ve done many cool things and had many shitty things happen in my days. It’s life. You roll with it and take it where it may.
What bugs me is when I’m with a group of people and they either have to get all deep and start talking serious tones.
About things they would have changed; want to do; or have a deep, satisfying glow from.
When I see conversation starting, to quoteth the poet, Clint Conley from Mission Of Burma,
“That’s when I reach for my revolver.”
It’s not that I don’t want to do things, wouldn’t like to better my life, can’t be a better person (hey, hey, hey! I didn’t ask for an amen from the peanut gallery!) it’s just that I’m not much of a sharer about such things.
It’s not because I mind telling stories (obviously) it’s because it always sounds so self-serving (‘I want to spend a year in the Congo teaching the minuet.’), self-aggrandizing (‘I want to end hunger and win a BET Lifetime Achievement Award.’), loopy (‘I want to corner the market in peanut butter then I’ll. . .I’m not going to tell you! I know your tricks! Aahahahahaha! I’ll be the king of easy spread! You’ll see! You’ll ALL see!’), or dour (‘I’d like to dig irrigation ditches where there are none and use my body as a living petri dish to grow skin and give it to those less skinny than I.’)
I’m sorry. I am what I am. Life is what it is. Roll with it or get rolled over by it.
But, every once in a while, I can’t escape. Damn social mores! The whiny and wonder winds toward me. I don’t get anxious about my upcoming share. That ain’t me.
I get pissed. Bored. I slowly become ultracrepidarian.
And we all know that’s never a good thing.
“I want to dedicate my life to curing blindness in the Astyanax fasciatus mexicanus.”
Oh, polite murmurs abound.
‘Yeah!’ I think. ‘You know why the Astyanax fasciatus mexicanus is blind? It evolved into that because it lives in caves you pretentious, fuc. . .’
“Chris, do you have anything you’d like to share.”
‘. . .king. . .’
“Come on.” I am implored. “There must me something you’d like to do before you die.”
“Well, there is one thing. But it’s silly.”
“Noting that fills your heart with need and passion is silly, Christopher.”
“Well, I’d like to see someone actually die laughing.”
He he he. These people sure don’t seem to know me, huh?
Over the growing murmur I continue.
“I’ve seen a guy have a heart attack but I had nothing to do with that. It was pretty cool though. I have made people spit thing out of their mouths and noses, fall out of chairs, bang their heads, laugh at inappropriate times, but die, ah, that would be one for the ages.”
I don’t know why, but it seems whenever I’m in a discussion such as this, I’m always the last to go.