You know how much I love you guys? So much. Who helped us to get over 1,000 fans on Facebook? You guys did. (Well, actually you guys are the fans on Facebook.) Who helped us to get over 2,000 followers on Twitter? You guys. (Again, you guys are the followers. Semantics.) Who helped us win 3rd best local blog in the Washington Post’s Best Night Out of 2009? That was all you. If Meg or I genuinely don’t know something and pose the question to you all, don’t you come up with the answer? Yes. Yes you do. I’m constantly impressed by how awesome all of our readers are. And I mean that. (Thus concludes the schmaltzfest portion of this blog post.)
I know it might not seem like it all the time. I’m sort of like the absentee stepfather of the blog. You had Patsy and Eddie in the beginning, but that was young love and drifted apart, as most young relationships do. Then Meg outed herself [Editor's Note: When Chris says I "outed myself," he means I outed that my real name is Meg and not Patsy. Not that I'm gay. Because I'm not gay. Just wanted to clarify that. K, I'm gonna go lick a chick out now.] and introduced you all to Becca, the new bird. “I don’t know about this, but I’ll give it a fair shake,” was what you all thought, whether you know it or not. But when Becca called it quits, you thought “Meg is the only person I can ever trust around here.” (And I know this for a fact because I can read minds.) Then Meg brought me home one night, and naturally you were suspicious. You kept expecting me to disappear, like all the other birds have. And then you found out I have a drunk texting problem. And hate nerds. And am genuinely not funny sometimes. And now I think you really might hate me. But this extended metaphor has a point! I know it got lost in there (refer back 3 sentences), but it has one. What I’m trying to say is that I’m going to do my best to be a better proverbial stepfather to this blog. I’m going to teach it to play catch. Or have tea parties with it. I’m going to go to all it’s school plays and soccer games. I’ll read it stories at night, and make it breakfast in the morning.
And to prove it to you, I’m going to share something with you that I haven’t shared with anyone. Not my family, not my friends, not even co-blogger Meg knows what I’m about to tell you (although by the time you read this, she’ll know, but only because she read this post!).
I’m straight.
No, obviously kidding.
I no longer have any idea what I want to do with my life.
It’s not much of a revelation, because I’m sure seven-tenths of you are saying “Yea, neither do I? What makes you so special?” And if you are saying that out loud, to your computer, maybe reel it in just a little bit. But in response, nothing makes me so special. But when you tell everyone you’ve ever known that you’re going to go to medical school and you spend four years as a pre-med student and the following two years after school working at a medical school, when you finally realize this is not for you, it takes you by surprise.
My first thought after this realization immediately was “Oh shit, everyone is going to be so disappointed in me.” In hindsight, this is probably further proof that being a doctor wasn’t what I wanted to do, as I really should give less thought to what everyone else is going to think about what I do with my life. But when your 87-yr-old, invalid shut-in great aunt, who is the sweetest woman on the face of the planet, tells you “I hope I live to see you become a doctor,” it’s hard not to have that echo bouncing around the back of your mind FOR ETERNITY.
Before Meg got her current job as a decorative paperweight, at one point she had an existential crisis because she had no real plan. Her other friends all had life plans, I had med school, but she had no direction. Well, child, I feel your pain. My current job is wearing me down, but if I’m going to look for something, what do I look for? What can I say in my cover letter to make you believe that, regardless of what my resume looks like, I really want to pursue a career in blacksmithing? What do I even want to do? If I could, I would screw all of my responsibilities and spend all day making sick mash-ups and DJ at night. I even picked out a DJ name: DJ Gingerballs. (It’s a work in progress.)
Currently, I’m at a loss. And since this revelation came over me within the past 72 hours, I haven’t really done much soul searching about what I’m going to do with myself. Right now, my current plan is to quit my job, move to DC, and be Meg’s human Snuggie. This will at least get me through the winter months, until it gets too warm to wear a Snuggie 24/7. This is all contingent upon Meg being OK with staring at my mug all the time. Which could get awkward when she goes on dates. [Editor's Note: HAHAHA! Bless your heart.] Or wants some “alone time.” [Editor's Note: That's more probable.] Details.
I’m currently opting to look on the bright side: At least I decided all this before a year of medical school. I saved myself at least 50K in school fees, not to mention I will retain some semblance of a social life, and am now much less likely to suffer a mental break studying the side effects of assorted medications.
In conclusion, I have no conclusion. I’m sure someone else has found themselves in roughly this same situation. Is there a light at the end of this tunnel? Should I just go back to college (listen to lots of Asher Roth) and try and find something else that piques my interest? Should I move to New Mexico to become a world renowned craftsman of silver and turquoise, specializing in bolo ties? Concentrate solely on winning the lottery and living a life of semi-luxury until I M.C. Hammer myself and blow all my money on gold plated gold plates? This is why I love you all so much: because no matter how ridiculous the question, you will inevitably write something. So any suggestions? What would you do if you were me? What have you done? I’m open to consider anything (although I’m not terribly limber, so running off to join the Cirque du Soleil is out). I knew I could count on you.
Showing posts with label what the fuck is a screen house?. Show all posts
Showing posts with label what the fuck is a screen house?. Show all posts
6.10.2009
Who says you can't go home again?
Como estan, bitches?
After the most stressful two weeks of my entire life, I am back. You may recall DGF from a few weeks ago, where I was moving all my worldly possessions with my own two hands. On top of that, work was an ever loving bitch last week. I may have worked 55+ hours at my normally 35 hour per week job. Beakers are usually not that demanding, but last week was hell on earth. To make matters worse, I had a death in the family (wamp wamp, who brought Debbie Downer to the blog party?), which means yours truly had to trek back home for the services.
So, sad reason to be at home with the family. But I enjoyed my time at home considering the circumstances. However, about 2 days into my time at home, I realized something was amiss. Let me preface this by saying I’ve been living away from home for almost 6 years now (I’m including college in that tally), and during that time I like to think I’ve become a responsible member of society. (sometimes). Maybe I’m alone in this, but I find that when I’m in my family’s house, I turn into my 12-yr-old self. Let me elaborate:
1.) My mom. I make my mom do things for me that I am perfectly capable of doing for myself. Frankly, I see nothing wrong with this. My mother birthed me for the sole purpose of doing things for me. Isn’t that why all women have children? To love and care for them? So when I’m home, I let my mom do my laundry, make me delicious sandwiches, tie my shoes, and what have you. I feel as though I’m doing her a service by giving her something to do. Could I get up off the couch to make my own sandwich? Sure, but there’s a Deadliest Catch marathon on, and sammiches always taste better when they are made with love.
2.) Food. Being home is greater than being at my apartment because at home all of the cabinets are fully stocked with foodstuffs. However, being home is less than being at my apartment because I eat all of the delicious foodstuffs in the aforementioned apartments. Seriously, when I’m home I spend most of the time eating like I just escaped from fat camp. Living on my own, I’ve gotten used to eating approx one meal a day. (True story: the first week of freshman year, I got so overwhelmed in the dining hall that I left without getting anything and ate nothing but crackers and peanut butter for a week.) So being at home and eating three square meals a day is strange. Not to mention the never-ending snacks I consume in between meals. I’m not saying I was a fat little kid, but I’m also not NOT saying I was a fat little kid.
3.) Animals. They say that petting a cat adds years to your life. If that’s the case, I’m going to live to a ripe old age after this weekend. Living on my own, I don’t have pets because they require you to be responsible. And my binge drinking habits don’t really speak to my responsibility. But at home, I’ve always had several pets at a time. So when I’m not cramming my cramhole with foodstuffs, I’m playing with the dogs or chasing the cats or other pet-related activities I can’t do in my apartment. I don’t walk or feed the dogs though, because that’s work. And that’s what my mom is for. But I’m not opposed to rolling around on the floor like a child. I’m in the privacy of my own home, who is going to judge me?
4.) Manual labor. Much like how women have children to care for them and cater to their every whim, men have children to perform menial physical labor for them for free. I can get my mom to do my bidding no questions asked, but my dad, as soon as I get home, has at least three projects that he needs my help with. No sooner had I put my bags down from getting in Friday night than my dad informs me we bought a new screen house that needs to be put up and a new pool liner that needs to get put in. Here is where I diverge from my 12-yr-old theme, because as a 12-yr-old I was rotund and physically useless. Now that I’m a strapping young lad, I get the pleasure of doing these chores. Nothing says I love you like fighting over Tab A and Slot B.
5.) Sleep. Unlike some of you, when I moved out of my old room, my little brother moved right in. The room I grew up in is no longer. My little brother’s poorly-lit, weird-smelling pigsty replaced my poorly-lit pigsty (but my room didn’t smells like dead hamster and blue cheese, thank you very much). I have been relegated to the “guest room” in the basement, which consists of my little brother’s old bed and heaps of junk my mother cannot bring herself to throw out. I don’t mind the heaps, but I do mind having my feet hang over the end of the bed all night. I am not 5’5” anymore. Please plan accordingly. This past weekend was even worse, as my aunt was staying with us, so I had to spend the whole trip home sleeping on our various couches. On the plus side, they are longer than a twin bed. On the downside, I slept in the living room, and our three kittens go beserk around 4 in the morning. A fact I was made aware of once one of them jumped square onto my chest.
Please tell me I’m not alone in this phenomenon. Going home is like going through a time warp. Just being in that atmosphere is like going through puberty all over again. Much in the same way being on or near a college campus makes me binge drink.
Regardless, I do enjoy going home, aside from the 10 pounds I inevitably put on after each trip. But it’s great to be back in the city. And in my new apartment, which now I have to make look like I actually live here and not like someone is having a yard sale in my place. If you’ll excuse me, I have some Jonas Brothers posters that need tacking up.
After the most stressful two weeks of my entire life, I am back. You may recall DGF from a few weeks ago, where I was moving all my worldly possessions with my own two hands. On top of that, work was an ever loving bitch last week. I may have worked 55+ hours at my normally 35 hour per week job. Beakers are usually not that demanding, but last week was hell on earth. To make matters worse, I had a death in the family (wamp wamp, who brought Debbie Downer to the blog party?), which means yours truly had to trek back home for the services.
So, sad reason to be at home with the family. But I enjoyed my time at home considering the circumstances. However, about 2 days into my time at home, I realized something was amiss. Let me preface this by saying I’ve been living away from home for almost 6 years now (I’m including college in that tally), and during that time I like to think I’ve become a responsible member of society. (sometimes). Maybe I’m alone in this, but I find that when I’m in my family’s house, I turn into my 12-yr-old self. Let me elaborate:
1.) My mom. I make my mom do things for me that I am perfectly capable of doing for myself. Frankly, I see nothing wrong with this. My mother birthed me for the sole purpose of doing things for me. Isn’t that why all women have children? To love and care for them? So when I’m home, I let my mom do my laundry, make me delicious sandwiches, tie my shoes, and what have you. I feel as though I’m doing her a service by giving her something to do. Could I get up off the couch to make my own sandwich? Sure, but there’s a Deadliest Catch marathon on, and sammiches always taste better when they are made with love.
2.) Food. Being home is greater than being at my apartment because at home all of the cabinets are fully stocked with foodstuffs. However, being home is less than being at my apartment because I eat all of the delicious foodstuffs in the aforementioned apartments. Seriously, when I’m home I spend most of the time eating like I just escaped from fat camp. Living on my own, I’ve gotten used to eating approx one meal a day. (True story: the first week of freshman year, I got so overwhelmed in the dining hall that I left without getting anything and ate nothing but crackers and peanut butter for a week.) So being at home and eating three square meals a day is strange. Not to mention the never-ending snacks I consume in between meals. I’m not saying I was a fat little kid, but I’m also not NOT saying I was a fat little kid.
3.) Animals. They say that petting a cat adds years to your life. If that’s the case, I’m going to live to a ripe old age after this weekend. Living on my own, I don’t have pets because they require you to be responsible. And my binge drinking habits don’t really speak to my responsibility. But at home, I’ve always had several pets at a time. So when I’m not cramming my cramhole with foodstuffs, I’m playing with the dogs or chasing the cats or other pet-related activities I can’t do in my apartment. I don’t walk or feed the dogs though, because that’s work. And that’s what my mom is for. But I’m not opposed to rolling around on the floor like a child. I’m in the privacy of my own home, who is going to judge me?
4.) Manual labor. Much like how women have children to care for them and cater to their every whim, men have children to perform menial physical labor for them for free. I can get my mom to do my bidding no questions asked, but my dad, as soon as I get home, has at least three projects that he needs my help with. No sooner had I put my bags down from getting in Friday night than my dad informs me we bought a new screen house that needs to be put up and a new pool liner that needs to get put in. Here is where I diverge from my 12-yr-old theme, because as a 12-yr-old I was rotund and physically useless. Now that I’m a strapping young lad, I get the pleasure of doing these chores. Nothing says I love you like fighting over Tab A and Slot B.
5.) Sleep. Unlike some of you, when I moved out of my old room, my little brother moved right in. The room I grew up in is no longer. My little brother’s poorly-lit, weird-smelling pigsty replaced my poorly-lit pigsty (but my room didn’t smells like dead hamster and blue cheese, thank you very much). I have been relegated to the “guest room” in the basement, which consists of my little brother’s old bed and heaps of junk my mother cannot bring herself to throw out. I don’t mind the heaps, but I do mind having my feet hang over the end of the bed all night. I am not 5’5” anymore. Please plan accordingly. This past weekend was even worse, as my aunt was staying with us, so I had to spend the whole trip home sleeping on our various couches. On the plus side, they are longer than a twin bed. On the downside, I slept in the living room, and our three kittens go beserk around 4 in the morning. A fact I was made aware of once one of them jumped square onto my chest.
Please tell me I’m not alone in this phenomenon. Going home is like going through a time warp. Just being in that atmosphere is like going through puberty all over again. Much in the same way being on or near a college campus makes me binge drink.
Regardless, I do enjoy going home, aside from the 10 pounds I inevitably put on after each trip. But it’s great to be back in the city. And in my new apartment, which now I have to make look like I actually live here and not like someone is having a yard sale in my place. If you’ll excuse me, I have some Jonas Brothers posters that need tacking up.
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