Hello to all flamboyant truck drivers along the east coast, cut-out coupons from newspapers, dusty moccasins, and bloggers blogging under cement trucks.
I write to you on a windy, grey Saturday; the cat is meowing at the door, the sad painting is on the wall, etc., as the sayings go. I wonder if you’ve ever found yourself sitting somewhere, and, because of some funny little quirk of awareness, start to notice what’s around you. For instance, around me now is one dollar, a gel-pen with blue ink, plastic flowers in a vase, a cat sitting on an orange footstool, a decrepit hockey bag that looks like City of Mice and Other Unpleasant Things One Doesn’t Want to Find In One’s Hockey Bag, a little orange plastic contraption on the windowsill that probably makes a bird-sound if you put water in it, a Chinese calendar cut in half, a pair of 3D glasses from the theater, a disembodied cardboard hand, two cylindrical candle-holders with origami birds in them, and etc. That’s what I see right now. I think it’s interesting how we look over these things so often, but they’re always there– the world is full of little details, but we see only one detail at a time. Where are you right now, my friend Blog-Reader? Are you sitting on a mountaintop with a computer on your lap waiting to be rescued by a helicopter? If you are, that’s terrible, and you should leave me a comment saying which mountain it is and if I have to contact the Tibetan police.
Anyway. The point of this blog entry still needs to be discussed– excuse me for my tirade. I’ve been reading an awesomely funny series of short stories by a blogger called Michael, and he, as am I, is a big fan of Monty Python-esque humor, and that kind of thing, and I like the tirades he goes into in his stories. (It’s called The Catrina Chronicles.) Tirades are fun, because they’re supposed to be long and silly and not always sane. (See: Best Tirade Ever, Monty Python and the Holy Grail, concerning a duck, a piece of wood, and a witch. And a newt.)
Anyway, what’s that about hardship and giggles? Well, let me educate you! I’ve been through minor hardships in my life, as I guess everyone mostly has, and I’ve noticed people have different ways of dealing with difficult situations. Some might take it calmly and be level-headed and quick to act, but heh, that’s not me. Some might fall into fits of rage, emotion, or distress; but me, I giggle.
In grade seven or eight, (can’t remember, middle school kind of melded together into one long, annoying, I’m Once Again The Weird One blur), there was a parade that went past our school. It was in honor of a police officer who’d been killed. I was just as serious and solemn-faced as everyone else, until I had to stand in silence by the side of the road watching ranks of officers stamp past in utter quiet seriousness.
But I couldn’t! Oh, dear lord, it was painful. I had to stuff my mitten in my mouth and drive thoughts of road-flattened animals and human rights violations into my head so I wouldn’t burst out in a mad fit of giggling.
I got past it. Thank God. The police forces of most of the province didn’t see one crazy girl giggling as their procession went past.
Why is that I giggle in bad situations? I don’t know, but it’s weird. Sometimes, when I’m past my utter breaking point, like say I’ve been through a really rough day or had an explosive argument with one of the family members, I’ll lie down with my face stuffed into my pillow and giggle with distress.
My mom has it worse than me, however. When I told her of my strange little giggling quirk, she told me the story of her dog. Her dog had been put down when she was a kid, and when she was told she started to giggle. She couldn’t stop giggling. Said the others: ‘He’s dead. Why are you giggling?’ To that, she continued to giggle.
Once, I broke my little toe on a footstool, and sunk to the floor gasping– but I had also just called my friend, the four-foot-tall karate master, and so I had to suck down the pain and talk to him while my toe throbbed and I tried not to scream at him. My mom, nearby, started to laugh. Thanks, mom, that’s real nice. By the time the conversation was over, I was almost crying, but she started to giggle, and so did I. I was doing some sort of twisted giggle-cry while my toe flamed with pain.
I’m sure there’s other instances, but maybe those are enough to get the picture. Anyway, I wish I could handle things like that in a normal way, but apparently I can’t. Apparently nothing’s as it should be with me. I am, after all, insane.
I would end this blog on that lighthearted, optimistic note, but I’m sorry, I can’t; there needs to be a Monty Python-esque scene at the end. Prepare yourselves for the obscure! While you read, find a shrubbery!
‘I’m afraid I am going to have to commit suicide.’
‘But what about tea-time?’
‘I won’t be there, I will be committing suicide. If I commit suicide I’ll have to miss out on tea.’
‘All right– but– after you’re done with that, can you come for tea?’
‘No. I will have committed suicide, and I will be dead.’
‘Yes, yes, but tea? After you commit suicide–,’
‘After I commit suicide I cannot join you for tea, that’s just the way it is.’
‘But I’ve gotten peppermint tea.’
‘I won’t be interested in peppermint tea. I’ll be dead.’
‘Yes, but– after you’re done being dead– you can’t come for tea?’
‘No, I can’t.’
‘Are you sure? If it only takes fifteen or so minutes–,’
‘No, it will take longer than that. It will take forever.’
‘Forever is how long? If you take about ten minutes with it, I can wait for you to start–,’
‘No, I’ll be dead.’
‘But after you’re done–,’
‘No, I’ll be dead.’
‘But the dog likes you–,’
‘No, I’ll be dead.’
‘I’ll call your auntie, she likes you too–,’
‘And I’ll be dead.’
‘We can buy a cake, and drink peppermint tea, and I’ll call your uncle, he likes you a bit too–,’
‘I’ll be dead.’
‘But you like tea, and I’ll even wait for you to be done–,’
‘I won’t be done. I’ll be dead.’
‘I’ll pick up some groceries–,’
‘You don’t have to. I’ll be dead.’
‘And there’s a shirt I need tailored–,’
‘There’s no need. I will be dead.’
‘But I can at least give you an hour or so, there’s nothing to do on Sunday–,’
‘No, there isn’t; I’ll be dead.’
Yours non-truly, and it’s only a flesh wound, and ‘Find the tallest tree in the forest, and cut it down– with this herring!’ ~ Onceabasementdog