5.20.2006

No Regrets

I recommending burying everything before it has a chance to do something stupid.

I started my first cemetery when I was four. My parents bought my brother and I several tropical fish. They were in a fish tank in my room and it was my responsibility to clean the love, feed and otherwise care for our new pets. Apparently the responsibility was more stress than I was prepared to handle. Two weeks after acquiring the fish, I set the thermostat too high and went out to play. When I came home, my room was stinky and humid. A molten kaleidoscope of dead things bobbed along the top of the water. It made my brother cry, my parents seemed dissapointed. I buried thier stinky, mushy bodies by the chimney.

Over the next few years, I secretly rehabilitated insects, wounded animals and roadkill at various homemade clinics situated around the house. I tried in vain to nurse flattened frog carcasses back to health in the garage. I made a nest of dirty laundry for pigeons who flew into the patio door and I fed them Advil and cherry Slurpees until, they too, eventually died. I put them all that shallow grave by the chimney where I would play tennis by myself. It was no use. Things kept dying under my care. Eventually I buried my racquet.

Perhaps spending the majority of my childhood playing alone and rehabilitating dead things retarded the development of some vital social skills. On the second day of kindergarden, I was so anxious about whether Carrie Stootz would be my friend that, to alleviate the anxiety, I pushed her off the top of the big slide. She broke her arm, but at least I never actually had to bury her.

Since then, Ive been mindlessly burying possibilities, paying respects to carcasses Ive made no connections with and developing a rich default depository for all life opportunities that may end in regret.

I dont take road trips. I avoid people I might be attracted to. I havent had a haircut in six years.

Despite my diligent avoidance, I am regretful more consistently than anyone I know. My experiences end in regret way more often than my trips to the bathroom end in hand-washing.

I regret missing the Super bowl. I regret drinking from the pump-chili dispenser at 7-11. I regret buying a book of short stories by Steve Martin. I regret ever dating anyone. I regret telling you about not washing my hands. I regret being proud of all my regret and I regret not joining the circus.

But thats not all I do with regret. It is also a useful compound in which you can soak and sanitize accomplishments, in order to ward off pride.

There are few things that I do not regret. I do not really regret driving the car through the backyard fence when I was 15 and I do not regret gluing my pubic hair to Amanda Johnson's doorknob in college.

But I guess that's about it.

5.19.2006

Dear Asian Lady

Thank you for teaching me about your culture.
The other day you posed the question, "Why you do that to your face?"

I was taken by surprise. In my country, acne is a fact of life that we grudging put up with, but are otherwise happy to politely ignore.

I can only wonder about the protocol in your country. Is there a game show for people unlucky enough to have pimples? Or do you just throw rocks at them?


Our interaction provided me with a great deal of insight into the hypocrisy of our ideals and other such bullshit and I think we have much to learn from a culture so comfortable with public indictments of poor skin care.

To answer your question:
I "do this to my face" because I hate compliments.
I wear my clothing inside out and deliberately apply lipstick to my teeth for the same reason.

Please ask me something else. I am eager to engage is this exciting cultural dialogue.