07.16.12

Monday Dare: Choose your own adventure, dummy

Every week, I challenge myself to a Monday Dare. You can click on the link if you’d like to see the complete list of Monday Dares or learn more about its origin.

This week: Learn the easy way

I’m the densest motherfucker I know. I don’t mean that my protons and neutrons and that-other-thing-I-cannot-remember-the name-of are packed tightly together, making me strong and impenetrable. (Side note: Let my ignorance be a warning to your children. Pay attention in class.) (Second side note: Is it proton or protron?) (Third side note: Please remember my first side note.)

I’m not Strong Dense. I’m Learn the Hard Way Dense. Every little bit of know-how and knowledge I’ve scraped together is a result of the poor choices I’ve made. When given an option, I always pick the one that tastes like a bad decision.

As a kid, I started borrowing Choose Your Own Adventure books from the library instead of buying them because I always ended up dead or trapped in a dark and dank pit. I would use the money I saved to buy large bags of Funyuns to console myself. Emotional Eating Due to Pretend Death or Entrapment-it’s a real thing. Word on the street is that there are 40 or more possible adventure paths per book. Good for you, Careful Choice Makers. Must be nice to be all alive and shit after solving the Mission of Molowa or breaking the Curse of the Pirate Mist.

Familiar with poor outcomes at an early age, I continued the same pattern of picking the worst choices as an adult. Does this option burn, bite, sting, or cause a bruise to my body or psyche? Then, yes please. I’m a glutton for punishment and a master of learning things the hard way. I will close my ears when friends start giving me advice. Fuck that shit, I think, I know best.

This attitude is probably why, in my single days, I ended up in some asshole’s apartment lobby with my bags and no place to go.

Cletus and I got into a fight over fried chicken. Well, it started out as a discussion about what to eat for dinner, but it turned into an argument when a friend called to ask what Cletus was doing. He pretended to be alone and said he had no plans for the evening, even though I had just traveled several hundred miles to see him and would be staying with him for a week. When I confronted him, he shrugged it off and said I was being sensitive. I started packing my bags out of anger. I don’t know why, since I had no place to go and knew no one else in the city. For ten minutes, as I packed up, he sat on the couch and watched me, not saying a single word. My pride took over and I actually walked out of Cletus’s place. I sat in the lobby for half an hour, weighing my options.

Then, I saw a Domino’s Pizza delivery guy. He called a unit for access into the building. Guess who’s voice was on the other side of the call? Yes, you are correct. In the half hour that I had been in the lobby, Cletus had ordered a pizza. I did what I thought was best. I called Cletus to apologize for my irrational and sensitive behavior. We stayed together for months afterwards. After each fight, I would apologize. My friends said he was a motherfucker. I didn’t listen. I stayed until he brushed me aside for someone else.

I’ve always been pretty content to root around in the filth of my insecurities and shortcomings. I’m dense! That’s just me! I need to learn the hard way! 

No, dummy, that’s not how sanity works. I’m giving myself permission to learn from others’ mistakes instead of making all of them on my own. I deserve a break.

Do you need to learn the hard way? Has it gotten you into any particularly memorable binds?
Ever apologized just to keep the peace?

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July 16, 2012
06.25.12

Monday Dare: Whatchu gonna do when they come for you?

Every week, I challenge myself to a Monday Dare. You can click on the link to see the complete list of Monday Dares or learn more about its origin.

This week: Face a fear

I’m afraid of cops. There, I said it.

Also, I never call a cop a “cop” to his face. I don’t think it’s derogatory or anything, but it seems a little too friendly and familiar. It’s always, “Yes, Mr. Law Enforcement Official, I agree it IS a bad idea to use my hands to act out a rap song rather than keeping them on the steering wheel,” or “No, Officer, I most certainly did NOT steal this Dora the Explorer doll from the little kid crying like a bitch in the corner.”

The few times I’ve been pulled over, I’ve never tried to finagle my way out of a ticket. I have my driver’s license, insurance, and registration in hand by the time the cop knocks on my window. Do I behave this way because I’m a good citizen? No, ma’am. It’s the fear all up in this motherfucking weenie heart of mine. It’s kept me on the straight and narrow though. I always come to a complete stop at stop signs. I’ve never murdered anyone. And even if I’m really hungry, I’ve never robbed a pedestrian for their sack lunch. 

So where does this unnatural fear come from? Perhaps it’s the fact that I’ve never been to jail. You know how you inexplicably feel in your gut that you’d be good at something even though you’ve never tried it before? Maybe you’ve never been to a casino, but you know that you’d be an excellent poker player because the burned area on your toast looked like an ace of spades last Tuesday. “That’s the universe talking,” you say.

In that same way, I just know that I would NOT make a good prisoner. Sure, I would buddy around with a guard here and there to ensure decent treatment, but what about the inmates? I would have to learn French braiding or Shiatsu massage really goddamn fast because I suspect that without a special skill, them crazy bitches would gang up and steal my slippers. Then I would have to walk around prison barefoot. I shudder to think how long it’s been since those cement floors have been Swiffered.

I equate cops with jail. If I were smarter, I would know that cops don’t necessarily lead to jail, it’s getting into trouble. But that’s not how my mind works.

Unfortunately, I’ve passed my fear down to Cal. Years ago, when I rolled down my window at a checkpoint one night, she shouted loudly enough for the officer to hear, “PO PO NO!” Ever seen a five-year-old duck down in her Graco booster seat trying to evade the law? Well, someone in the Los Angeles Police Department has now witnessed it. Now, I make positive statements like, “Oh, look at that NICE policeman,” when she’s in the car. I assume that’s what Good Parents do.

I don’t know how I’m working through this Monday Dare. There’s a precinct not far from my house. I suppose I’ll just bring some rice krispies by and hang out and shoot the shit. And I assure you, that’s all I’ll be shooting.

Any irrational/unnatural/unexplained fears?
Run-ins with the law? Both good and not-so-good.

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image via pinterest

June 25, 2012