Of Afro Injuries, Man Manuals & Freud Being A Sod.

Pain is shooting through every finger as I type this post, and as much as I’d love to come up with a socially-acceptable explanation or a heroic story where my wrist pops by shoving a fat kid  away from his imminent death on a highway, taking the fall minutes away as the Grim Reaper skives a school bus off its track smack into the poor fat kid, or maybe  how your wrist got fried fighting Voldemort off, the only battle fairytale I got is that I made the mistake of trying to comb and blow-dry my own afro and ended up with a rotator cuff injury. Charming story, great for the kids.Why does everything have to be so complicated in some way or another? Why can’t people just say what they’re thinking and act accordingly? At this point, it just seems like a valiant effort to include myself in the definition, since we all know that being me, life is unfathomable, people are indecipherable and everything is insufferably more complicated that a Japanese nuclear reactor. I mean, it’s bad enough that I had to deal with the disappointment of manuals not being handed on arrival – I gotta add, for something so elaborate as life, it’s almost humiliating not to include a brochure, I’m so not using this service again – but I also had to be deluded to think that people get the hang of it as they go along. But no, I’m me. Lady Gaga comes along and sings about how somebody ate her heart and people don’t think that’s weird, but I do. I THINK IT’S WEIRD! And people don’t think it’s weird because they’re people. And you’ve reached an impasse, trying to fit yourself into the people definition and it’s just a round peg in a square hole with an instruction manual that’s available in 97 languages except the ones  you speak.

So you think to yourself, ‘You know what? I’m just gonna watch Gilmore Girls till this one blows off.’ And guess what? You’re watching a season a day and it’s still there, and then you run out of seasons and everything is still the same way it cryptically is and there are no alternatives or visible solutions. And that, my friends, is how shows like ‘House-swap or ‘The Real Housewives’ get fucking viewers. Mystery solved. Glad we’re done with that one, now setting it aside and back to the problem that, yes, is still pretty much right there.

And you try another approach, opening up with a heartfelt declaration that from now on, you support zombie attacks, unfriendly alien landings, mutating evil scientists and door-to-door Adventists just to piss people off. You cross your heart and hope to die if you don’t personally finance pinky and the brain's evil plans and sponsor Dr. Evil's research in hope that they all perish. You hit a couple of road bumps of how you barely have enough to cover your college funds and proportional supply of noodles to keep you alive as it has done to many other college students, and that of the realistic slap on the face of how the odds of Dr. Evil or the slightest hope of mini me showing up to any of your pleading summons is less than that of having space junk dumped on you, which is quite sad since the statistic on that is a billion to one.

Then you get bored, try to comb and blow dry your own afro, cussing at Freud under your breath only to have a very tangible proof of his righteousness in the form of a panging strain for a reminder, and you can’t reach in there and rip the notifications and sticky notes right off of your cranial walls because again, reality is being a constraining clingy parent, limiting your arm’s reach to exo-skeletal areas.

That’s when an audible ‘Aha!’ comes bearing news of why words like ‘Bummer’ exist, which you carefully file next to your reality show ratings. An army of minions rush in, like how nobody says hello when they’re goodbyin’ except when they’re Hawaiian, which increases your tolerance towards coconut bras and grass tutus only to disappoint you with yet another confirmation of how Freud was right about the defense mechanism parts as well. That two-bit whiny sod.

And just when you’re down in the dumps and thinking it couldn’t get any slimier, you get a friend request from someone whose recent activity shows that they’ve ordered mosquito forceps and are quite happy with the purchase, not to mention that their information box says: “A potato.” And you think, you know what? I’m alright after all.

Life is funny, you just gotta have the nerve to laugh it off at the end of the day .. and an emergency kit in case it hits a nerve.