Tummy

I write a lot of run-on sentences.

 I’m working on it, my punctuation. My study guide is The Oatmeal’s ‘How to use a semicolon’ comic poster. You should really check it out; it’s technically quite sound, (as far as I know) and the reference sentences are funny. After ‘study time’ I spent the next 20 minutes laughing at his other comics, which I consider time well spent.

 Do you ever surprise yourself by laughing? I don’t mean the sardonic chuckles that flavour most conversations like a bad spice, but a really good laugh at something that’s just funny. I did that yesterday, and then I wondered at the somewhat sad reality that it was such a surprise. I think that we modern humans spend an inordinate amount of time chasing dark clouds to hang out under and complain about, and that’s a bummer. I think about the news a lot instead of watching it. I think about the fact that it’s called the news, but it’s already old; it’s history, it’s a story, it’s fantasy. What I’m getting at is that I don’t see the point in taking it too seriously.

 I love stories; I listen to audiobooks all the time, and I have since I was old enough to flip a cassette. They make me feel everything: love, rage, inspiration, sadness, like I could write a story like that, and that I could never write a story like that.

What I feel is real, and if I don’t like how I feel, I turn the story off and take care of myself. I prove to myself that I have agency in my life.

 I didn’t always take such care, and as a result I found myself in some pretty crappy stories, ones that found me in rehab, or alienating my most cherished people, or on the path to suicide. Those are dark stories, but they’re over when I am, and I’m not. I can move on, bearing the full knowledge of what I have done, and honouring that story while writing a better one. All stories are tragedies at some point, but usually not at the end.

 It is so hard to write about stuff like this and not include cliche and platitudes. I spent some time in AA many years ago, and I tried my best to stay away from all the catch phrases, but it was so impossible that I went out, drank heavily for 10 more years, then quit on my own just to get away from it all. I never wanted to be perfect; I just want to be me, and apparently I am not at the bottom of a bottle...I guess they’re right, you never get away.

 I like stories, but I try not to focus on too many at a time. If I catch myself asking, “What the fuck is THEIR problem?”, too often, I remind myself that it would be better asking, “What the fuck is MY problem?” There usually isn’t a shortage, and if there is, that’s great, now I can sit, in my van, in a parking lot, laughing until my tummy hurts, all by myself.

 PS: sardonic is from the Greek sardonios, meaning of sardinia, in reference to a Sardinian plant that, when eaten, made you laugh yourself to death.

 There’s a story there.