I have my less-than-impressive surface area and X chromosomes to thank for my low alcohol tolerance. It’s not like I can put “holding my liquor” on a resume or impress my parents with it– but it would be nice to be less of a goober about it.
I’ll be the first to admit I’m not brave. I’m scared of choking while alone in my apartment, I once had a massive panic attack brought on by thinking about ringworm, and I live in fear of the day my boss realizes my job is not difficult and sends me home forever.
This is a cold, unfriendly planet, fraught with incidents of asphyxiation, fungal infections, and job termination. I often want to escape for a while, maybe by popping in a movie. I do not want that movie to be scary.
For the record, I’m not a baby. I’ve seen things that would curl your hair– fire and brimstone coming down from the skies! Rivers and seas boiling! The dead rising from the grave! Human sacrifice, dogs and cats living together, mass hysteria! Things were pretty grim, but then four guys in coveralls climbed onto the roof of a skyscraper, challenged a god with an ’80s haircut, toasted a giant marshmallow man, and solved the whole problem. I ain’t afraid of no ghosts.
Snakes freak me out, and I think that’s ok. If I was afraid of something silly like turning into a tree, that would be embarrassing. A fear of snakes, however, makes complete sense. Some primitive, cavewoman part of me understands snakes are bad because they can kill you. They often don’t kill you, and for the most part they actively avoid you, but they can. This is also why I’m afraid of shy ninjas.
Even the word “snake” gives me the heebie-jeebies.
The trouble with vacations is that they give you way too much time to think. I just came back from a vacation that I spent sitting around reading books, eating things that were frighteningly orange, making lists, and having an existential meltdown.
Long story short, I’m graduating in May with no idea what to do with my life and it recently occurred me that eventually I’m going to be old and decrepit. (I’m fun!) How easy would it be to get stuck in some job I feel apathetic towards and waste decades of life? SO EASY, is the answer to that. I know this is absurd and that it doesn’t matter what I pick because I can change my mind. I keep telling myself that, but it isn’t working. The only thing I’m sure I’ll be when I graduate is the kind of obnoxiously pretentious person who claims to have existential crises. The point of this story is that I’ve had a relapse of the second-to-worst kind.
I’m petsitting a fish. Well, technically my roommate is petsitting the fish, but she’s been gone every weekend for the last month, so on weekends and holidays, Mojo’s care falls to me. I’m not big on fish, and this arrangement makes me feel like a divorced parent with an embarrassingly ugly child.
I’m pretty sure my dislike for all things scaly stems from a scarring high school experience with a betta fish named Stu Jorge. I had him for all of 24 hours before he died in the middle of the 2007 Oscars, probably due to the intense hatred we shared for Leonardo DiCaprio. In our brief time together, Stu Jorge made me realize something: Fish are terrible people.