Read Eat, Pray, Love: If I’d written that book, it would be called Drink, Swear, Fart. Oh, I’m sorry, but anyone who has the means to get over a breakup by traveling through Italy and Southeast Asia finding herself doesn’t have real problems. Money can’t buy happiness, ostensibly, but try being over the moon when you’re poor. It’s easy to be all philosophical and learn things about yourself if you’ve never sold plasma to pay the gas bill.
Get Married: Several thousand dollars and a lawsuit just so I can kiss a man on the lips in front of my family. I don’t see who wins.
Work for a News Company: How long do you think I’d live pretending to be impartial, much less pleasant? As far as I’m concerned, the word “communists” is spelled “Goddamncommunistswhoruineverything,” and I refer to all hundred senators as “fuckface.” (Except for the ladies, who are “Madam Fuckface.”)
Teach High School: Here’s what I remember from high school: manganese compounds make a pretty purple color, the French word “le clitoris” is masculine for some reason, Sargon the Great ruled something sometime, and Iris Mendoza puts out. I refuse to spend thirty years talking about history while babysitting so some blogger in 2040 will say that all he remembers from high school is that Henry VIII had seven wives.
Join the French Foreign Legion: I don’t mind living in an isolated desert or on some remote island, but damned if I’ll do it for the glory of France.
Go to Prison: Rape aside, you’re never alone in prison. I’d last about fifteen minutes. Can you imagine?
Cellmate: Yeah, so, anyway, then my fifth murder – I didn’t tell the police about this one – I threw my ex-wife into a wheat thresher.
Me: Let. Me. Sleep.
I don’t understand how solitary confinement is a punishment. I would beg for it.
Ever Go To a Karaoke Bar Again: If I want to hear someone tone-deaf sing Joan Baez songs, I’ll buy a Joan Baez album. Besides, no one ever applauds when I sing “Harper Valley PTA.”
Ever Go to Dempsey’s Brass Rail Again: Dempsey’s Brass Rail may or may not be the only gay bar in Spokane. I may or may not have gone there once with a former co-writer of this blog, and there may or may not have been an Incident. There may or may not be bales of hay spread around the bar.
Be A Former U.S. President: Except for Jimmy Carter, don’t you feel bad for them? Let’s say you leave office at sixty. That leaves you thirty or so years of going to earthquake-ravaged Asian countries, war-ravaged South American countries, and disease-ravaged African countries, looking around while trying to appear “concerned,” then reporting to the United Nations, who won’t do anything. Either you get the Nobel Peace Prize and everyone says “for what? Asshole,” or you don’t get it, and everyone says “Didn’t even get a Nobel Peace Prize. Asshole.” I didn’t care for George W while he was president, but I’ll give him this: he’s been relatively quiet since he left office.
Be A Really Powerful Psychic: Imagine taking that power on the bus. Sixteen people thinking “Fuck work,” three people thinking “I wish I had a job to go to,” and one person thinking, “Oh, when will the Neptunian space moths take me to my palace?” Also, as Mom pointed out in a conversation we had immediately before I went to bed the other day, given FBI estimates of the number of murderers active, there’s a good chance you’ve been on a bus or plane or in a room, or SOMEHOW been relatively near a serial killer at some point. Imagine sifting through a concert hall full of people thinking “Iron Maiden kicks ass!” and then running across one “Iron Maiden kicks ass, but I wish I were eating my neighbor’s meaty thigh.”
Have A Twin: I went to high school with a set of twins. One was slightly better looking than the other; one was nice and the other was an asshole; one was a much better athlete than the other. The better-looking one was also the nice one was also the good athlete. Then the less attractive/ worse athlete/ asshole came out and it made everyone very uncomfortable.
Have A Siamese Twin: Twice in my life, I’ve met sets of twins where one was gay and the other wasn’t. (Both times, I got along well with the straight one and couldn’t stand the gay one, so there that is.) Imagine that situation, but you share a torso. Also – again – NEVER ALONE.
Be Forced To Cut Off My Own Foot: Given a fair choice, I’d rather do it than watch “Everybody Loves Raymond,” but having the choice is what’s important to me.