My dilemma this week is an ancient one, a philosophical grail quest of sorts that has plagued man since Grog first stuck his paleolithic head out of the cave, bumped it against a giant woolly creature, and his neighbor Fromb poked his head out and said, “What’s the matter, Grog, having another mammoth Monday?”
My dilemma is, of course, “Is life in general just a cruel and hideous joke?”
I don’t expect to arrive at any conclusion on this matter, I merely want to offer my support to those who seek to answer this question in their own lives.
On the most recent iteration of this journey into the heart of existence (there have been several), my suspicions that life is a cruel and hideous joke began to resurface this Tuesday when my story was workshopped in a fiction class. My story was about the murder of a boy named Will and his dog, Rufus. Turns out my teacher’s son’s name is Will and her dog’s name is . . . you guessed it. Rufus.
Suffice it to say, I found myself praying that a band of troubadours would barge in and begin to re-enact the Defenestration of Prague, with me staring as the Regent, so I wouldn’t look like such a pansy when I hurled myself out a window.
Another sign that life is a cruel and hideous joke?
My roommate went out of town last weekend to visit some friends in Rhode Island. I should preface this by saying that she parks her car on the streets of Baltimore on a nightly basis. I should also say that talking about the crime rate in the area she went to in Rhode Island is like talking about the crime rate in Stepford (those who do are never heard from again and/or made into mutant Barbies). Yet, somehow, it was in the cradle of suburbia and not in big bad Baltimore that the hubcap was stolen off her new car. I’m sorry, but is this “‘Road’ Island — eight owners and eight cars strive to survive the bad streets of New Port and beyond?”
Other episodes relating to the theme of life as a joke: I went to Health and Wellness because I’ve recently come down with some sort of respiratory infection. The medical prognosis was that I should wait it out or take Musinex-d (d is for drug) because there is a slight chance it could be allergies. I have no allergies.
People say youth is wasted on the young. I couldn’t agree more. My birthday is next week and all I can think about is how I wish I was turning 72 instead of 22. At 22 everyone is saying, “You’re young. You have your whole life ahead of you — aren’t you living it up? You have no responsibilities. Scribble poetry on napkins! Get an asymmetrical haircut! These are the best years of your life!” Talk about pressure. At 72 people are more along the lines of, “Do you want some cake? After naptime? Okay.”
And to top it off, my cat is thinking about eating me. His pupils dilate whenever we hang out, and he keeps lying down next to me. I’m pretty sure he’s measuring to see whether he’ll be able to fit me in one bite, or if he’ll have to do it in several rounds. I’m so screwed.
So is life a joke? You decide. For the moment I’m leaning towards yes, but I am looking to be convinced otherwise. In the meantime, if you’re thinking about sending me something for my birthday, I am open to Bingo and scratch cards.
