Saying ABSOLUTELY NOTHING In Particular About Responsible Triviality and Gif Abuse

I have not run the gamut everything I could be doing except my linguistics paper in the past 24 hours...

…and when I say “linguistics paper”, I mean grading papers. Because I’m a professor.

Anyway, the reason why I can’t say I’ve done everything EXCEPT grade papers in the past 24 hours is because that would defy the Laws of Procrastination. While suspended in academic inertia, I tend to maintain the personal delusion that I will start grading papers sometime in, like, the next five minutes. Therefore, it’s unrealistic and irresponsible to consciously commit to something as time-consuming as a full-length feature film or picking up where I left off in The Chelsea Whistle. Which is too bad. I mean, if I were honest with myself about my unspoken commitment to dwindle the rest of my waking hours on pointless non-activities, I could at least drink. Because, let’s face it, folks: the only thing better than a Hot Toddy is numerous, consecutive Hot Toddys.

According to the warped logic of the Laws of Procrastination, intensely trivial activities are The Responsible Thing To Do. Because if the Paper-Grading’s gonna go down in, like, five minutes, anything that I’m going to do that’s not grading papers better be quick. For example, Tweets are written. Not only is Tweeting a relatively small exercise, there’s an additional delusion that everything I accomplish in the perpetual five minutes before I start in on my less palatable responsibilities drips with importance. Anyone who follows me on Twitter must want to know about it. Why wouldn’t they? (See also: the existence of this blogpost.)

After a smattering of Tweets, I might get up and make rice pudding – because, all things considered, making rice pudding doesn’t take all that long, does it? While ladling out the finished product, it will occur to me that vegetarian chili fries would be THE BEST THING EVER; second only to the post-chili-fry GENIUS that is cookie-baking. These, of course, take more time than a full-length feature film, but…in the grander scheme of things...

BEST FUCKING IDEA EVER

I will admit that the endless five minutes are further perpetuated by all the dishes dirtied by these GENIUS culinary shenanigans, and it would be sorely irresponsible of me if I left them all festering at the side of the sink.

Then, with dishpan hands and keystrokes, it will suddenly seem to be very important that I try my hand at being one of Those People who overload their blogposts with gifs. I already dabbled in ending posts with music videos, how different is that from the novel gimmick of gifs? I mean, really. What’s the worst that could happen?

You know who didn’t ask herself that latter question very often? High School Me. A very short-sighted, small-picture woman, High School Me was. Once, in causal conversation with someone she hardly ever spoke to at school, it was brought to light that the near-stranger had read her Live Journal on a more-than-once basis. Which was like…what?

High School Me wasn’t expecting that.

A bit of a wake-up call.

Let that be a lesson to you: if you wish to blunder forth according to your most cherished misconceptions, best to not talk to anyone lest said misconceptions are challenged. Likewise, if heavily drinking on a daily basis continually fails to be compatible with your rudimentary Protestant morality: give up church for Lent. But only for Lent – assuming that you’re in any way attached to the prospect of pastors being your bridesmaids.

And High School Me was operating ten years ago. I’m sure it’s gotten “worse” since then…because the world’s on a trajectory towards ultimate shittiness…right? That’s how that story went? I don’t know. There’s a draft of a text message saved in my phone that reads, “The world through my urethra (rev 2)”. I’m torn about that, too – whether or not I want to remember its context.

Anyway: these days, I’m not terribly worried about being surprised about who reads my Live Journal. For one, I no longer have a Live Journal. For two, I’ve seen the numbers (as far as page-views on this blog goes), and nine times out of ten, I’m near-exclusively writing or Chloe, Sophia, and the Time Machine Mechanic. Sometimes Anita, too.

Mind you, I’m not complaining about the limited readership. It makes me feel like I have more license to spontaneously revert the purposes of posts to platonic love letters without it being too weird or alienating.

I love you guys.

BTW, I stole all the gifs from here. They stole them from somewhere else.

Hippies and Tater Tots

Last August, I was in the backseat of my landlord’s sanely proportioned sports utility vehicle when an unwashed hippie crossed the street in front of us. A framed backpack mounted his shoulders. His bare feet were darkened with dirt, nearly black at the soles, gradually dissipating up his legs, but dirty nonetheless. Dirt that never ends. Mount Shasta is a pilgrimage site or something for Unwashed Hippies. In the warmer months they flock in with their dreadlocks and sweat-stained hemp clothing to patronize crystal shops and (ironically) shave their legs in the lakes. They wade in the headwaters of the Sacramento River despite such wading being explicitly forbidden. They powwow near the natural food store. They jut out their dirt-encrusted thumbs on the side of the road.

They deliberately refrain from bathing for one reason or another. I’m sure there are a smattering for whom it isn’t a choice, but nevertheless, I’m told that part of the Unwashed Hippie Lifestyle is that one chooses not to bathe. Soap is unnatural, you see. Mind you, most of my Unwashed Hippie Information is technically hearsay. I did a stunning job of NOT doing any background research or fact-checking on my own. However, I did manage to find the time to fact-check after I heard a preacher quote Desmond Tutu saying something about how we are God carriers.

I tried turning this over in my head for a while, like rosaries for neuro-pathways: God carrier, God carrier, God carrier… A pulse of divinity through my normally-clogged consciousness while walking the dog: God carrier, God carrier, God c-OH NO ANOTHER GOD CARRIER RUN AWAY!…

Please understand that I’m not publicly condoning any outright, blind hatred towards any individual or demographic of individuals. (I’m also not saying I hate these people. I just don’t like the way they smell.) I’m being honest about what’s encoded in the chain-mail that enshrouds my heart and dilutes all the Jesus that tries to get out. It sings something to the tune of, “Carry God any way you want, just… don’t do it around me.” This sentiment is frequently followed by a retreat into my tent with a can of Lysol, clutched close like a shut-in in a gated community sleeping with a rocket launcher under their pillow. Because who needs the cleansing work of acceptance and other God Stuff when you have a good, sturdy, Girl-Scout-grade sleeping bag to pull over your head?

This is my tent. Clearly, my tent exists for real.
Also, if you can name the Buffy episode that's
playing on my unreasonably large television set,
you get a prize.
...that's a lie. It's more like I get a prize, because if you
did so even half-accurately, I would collapse into a fit of
spasmodic squealing and glee.

In other news, “heresy” comes from the Greek word for choice. That may merit an entire post all on its own, but when I started brainstorming (laziest two seconds OF MY LIFE), it went like this: choice... cafeteria Christianity... cafeterias? Ooooh my gosh, tater tots are AMAZING... let’s run inside and see what Sophia and Jeff think about tater tots for dinner.

Furthermore, chickens.

Now that I’ve posted this, I need to go ask my pastors if they’ll still be my bridesmaids.

Dear Few-People-Who-Read-This-Blog (I probably even know who you are. I’d give shout-outs. But that would be tacky-HI NOËL!*)

It has come to my attention that regular upkeep of one’s blog is Good and Proper. However, I’ve never been much for Goodness or Propriety, at least not in the ways that Goodness and Propriety have been explained to me. This personal preference is accompanied by a small burden of guilt that usually crops up during large family gatherings and church functions… The point HERE being that I am obviously not so great with generating posts on a consistent, weekly basis. I’m not saying I don’t admire those who do. I’m just saying that I’m about as good with blog-upkeep as I am with proselytizing.

The two activities in and of themselves are far from a perfect comparison, but I will say that unlike the infrequency of my blogposts, I am scrupulously consistent in my proselytizing methods. You see, I corral one or more people together who I know for certain to be People Who Hold The Wrong Beliefs (including but not exclusive to people who identify as Christian and are allegedly are kidding themselves). I then engage in activities that cause me to lose control of my body (this is key – so key, in fact, that its name could be Dawn). Once I’ve got my head in a toilet/am stuck squirming on the ground and have everyone’s attention because they’re all wondering how someone could have that kind of reaction to such a small amount of weed/am naked, I ask if they’ve heard the Good News About Jesus Christ. Regardless of their answer – I probably didn’t hear it over the vomiting/haze of overriding intoxication/nakedness (sometimes nudity is a deafening experience) – I tell them we should say the Sinner’s Prayer, as soon as they would please be so kind as to Google it, because by that time I’m too fucked up to remember what exactly the Sinner’s Prayer is, let alone what it says.

Success rate? I can’t be sure, see: the state of such otherworldly fuckupedness that I’ve lost 95%+ of contact with reality. But it’s the thought that counts.

Thus, I’m going to provide a link here to Rob Bell’s tumblr. That way, when all my indiscretions get replayed to me at Judgment Day, I can point to this one time I suggested Christian cyber-literature to the few people who read my blog, and tell (not ask) Saint Peter that it counts for something.



* Another reason why the shout-out idea isn’t a good one: because now I feel bad for not making everyone my bridesmaid. That’s how it works, right? Bridesmaids are a birthday party thing? Bastille Day? Before I careen any further in an irredeemable direction, here are some Tim Burton-esque deep-fried donut-scraps. #vivelagluten

Also, if you got the Buffy reference, I want to be your friend forever.