On the surface, and way deep down, I am Serenity incarnate. I am at peace. I love all people earnestly and reach out to them with arms of fraternal kinship. I am confident that this world, such as it is, represents the best of all possible realities, and I take the vicissitudes thereof as they come, with calm and wonder.
But somewhere between the still surface of the water and the serene depths, there are brief little churning whirlpools of acid. They come and go and are erased with a moment's reflection, or a wry accepting smile. Perhaps you have them, too. They cannot define us. But to deny them would be to let them fester until an illness of real proportion crippled the mind.
Hence, allow me to admit, however perfunctorily: I'm so very sickened. I am so sickened now . . .
I am sick of smoking hot beautiful women. They are real. Not airbrushed or photoshopped or animated or dependent on fabulous lighting. They're just damn hot, and there are lots of them. And I'm sick of them. Just because I can't have them you say? What other reason is there? I'm sick of the way these women put me instantly, painfully in touch with the just plain sickening part of myself that wants them all, all the time, and the just plain sickeningly stupid part that insanely concedes some infinitely minute and distant basis for thinking that there is even the slightest infinitely minute and distant possibility that any one of them and any part of me, (even the decent, cogent, serene part), could ever enjoy any kind of mutual anything.
I'm sick of movies that are based on the premise that a whole bunch of what is essentially shit has to happen happen happen all the time. So, so sick of movies that are so predictable at every turn that I have made my poor wife sick of me ruining the movie whispering derisively in her ear the next three plot points before they happen. Even the twists--SCREW the FAKE STUPID twists. I'm choking on useless sequels and remakes. Like swallowing vomit. I'm sick of wandering around the video store wondering if there will ever be another good movie that isn't a documentary.
Surprisingly, I'm not sick of huge fat slob people. (They make me a little sick, but that's actually different when you really think about it.) More than ever I respect their hearts of gold. Several of them I number among my friends, so I was happy to hear that the Canadian Supreme court ruled in Fatty's favor and said that if you achieve an admirable enough girth, you are ENTITLED to two seats on a plane, but you only have to pay for one. It took the generously proportioned of the Great White North (and there are A LOT of them) to prove once and for all that Canada is indeed a silly place, doomed to eventual implosion from which only the black hole of a gargantuan self esteem complex will remain.
I was about to be sick of Oprah Winfrey, until 30 Rock reminded me that Oprah and the Universe are one. Seriously, have you ever seen them in a picture together?
I'm sick of fashion. What am I supposed to do with these boot cut jeans? They came and went faster than The Secret. I'm too poor to keep up and I am a hopeless metrofashionista.
I'm sick of being a hopeless metrofashionista.
I'm sick of hair. Really just my own. Long hair is for the young, so I keep it short. But wanting a change, keep trying to grow it out. After a few weeks it enters this undefinable middle phase, not long, not short, just an unmanageable mini-fro from hell. I wish I'd just go bald. Maybe I'll wear a hat for a year. Or a wig. It worked for our first president.
Speaking of which, I'm really sick of people who have never read the Constitution, or the Declaration of Independence, or the Federalist Papers, or any of the thousands of documents written by the founders, who have the gall to think they have any idea what America is. Shut up all of you, turn off the Daily Show (OK, you can tivo it), read a little, and then talk. To be fair, the problem isn't you, per se. It's the bile that rises in my throat every time you talk that makes me queasy.
Other than that, I'm like a cool morning in Spring. A smile on my lips and a song in my heart.