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.
