You can scroll the shelf using ← and → keys
You can scroll the shelf using ← and → keys
So what’s the deal with loneliness?
Most of the time I can justify the loneliness well, by calling myself an aloof writer gal. I drape myself in scarves, drink a lot of tea, and shut out the world in the name of making art.
But that’s bullshit and we all know it.
Having people all around you is the best! Not because I enjoy the company of others, but only because if I faint, or have a heart attack, or if a refrigerator topples onto me…PEOPLE are the tools that can assist!
And so, when you don’t have the tools, when you live without the presence of humans, it’s scary and it’s the worst. So let’s feel sorry for ourselves, agreed?
Maybe. Except…isn’t it better to be alone than in the company of extra terrestrials?
Let’s say it is a proven fact that aliens exist (well of course it is but I’m trying to be unbiased), and let’s say one night you are abducted in your sleep.
How bad could it possibly be?
Not so bad at first. You’re simply on a silver ship, with lots of strange lights and buttons and fancy screens. It’s almost a little bit…awesome.
But then you see the slimy big-eyed creatures. They speak to you in their crazy alien language. It’s still not as bad as being lonely and having a refrigerator fall on top of you, but we’re getting there.
Let’s say the aliens caress you, because those long slimy hands weren’t made for standing idly by. And then let’s say they put you in a medical room, hook you up to a bunch of machines…and put your ass to sleep.
It’s a nightmare-free and restful sleep, so it’s fine if you still think the lonely/”fridge fall” option is worse.
But then you open your eyes, and there are five “alien/you” hybrid babies slithering around.
These are your children now, and they are uglier than a bottom of a foot that’s been run over by a truck. Twice.
The next thing you know your alien husband or wife wants you to clean up all the hybrid baby slime, to play with the hybrid babies, and to bathe the hybrid babies once a day.
It’s all the annoying aspects of parenting without the natural lighting and freedom, but WITH the random testing on your body, as well as potential anal probes (if alien fables prove correct). Not to mention a very ugly slime-covered mate you’re supposed to “do it” with.
So if you’re all alone and that refrigerator topples onto your sad little self, just remember that you read this, and remember that you’re not on that ship. Two very good thoughts before you die of neglect at the hands of a major appliance…
If head lice didn’t have a cure, I’m not sure what I would’ve done in university.
There I was, pretending to follow along in a lecture on Canadian law, when I felt a little tingle in my scalp. A few tingles later and I knew I had a visitor. Naturally, I began to forage around with my index finger and thumb. A few seconds passed and I pulled out a brown wriggly bug. Indeed, actual lice bugs laying their eggs in my hair, during an afternoon lecture of Canadian law.
I was baffled. I mean it’s not like I’d been spending my nights with immigrants who had bypassed the de-lousing station.
So how does a grown-up get head lice?
Notwithstanding the possibility that I’d tunneled through a pile of garbage during a sleepwalking expedition, it was beyond any explanation.
I didn’t have time to worry about the “how”, because instead my brain was fogged with illogical fears. In fact the second I crushed the first bug I imagined a million more, and a world where I would never be cured. I imagined head lice as the new millennium’s AIDS. Maybe not fatal in this case, but definitely the cause for benefit concerts (and a reason for U2 to get on stage).
If head lice wasn’t fatal in this imaginary world without a cure, the earth’s greatest fear would be expansion unto others. Which would explain my brand new lifestyle in a plastic bubble. My parents would visit from time-to-time, but even they’d grow tired of watching me wave hello amidst a playpen of brown crawly things.
During this unfathomable ordeal, I would somehow manage to find and secure a boyfriend. Maybe he liked the idea of his woman being trapped in a cage, or maybe he liked the way I sexily scratched my hair (and yes I refused to buzz my hair off despite the disease…I covet my locks). He could touch me by sticking his arm through those protective “glove arms.” I would regard it as an adequate level of caressing, but let’s be honest…I’ve had better.
And that would be my life; never allowed to soak up the sun, never permitted to go out for ice cream, having to wait until the last Harry Potter movie came out on DVD…a living hell.
Yes, that would be my life, IF there wasn’t a cure for head lice.
Instead there is harsh shampoo and that tiny but efficient lice-bug comb. Instead, the twenty-year-old version of me in real life cured her head-lice within a week, and never told a single soul…until now of course, and to the awkward reaction of you all.
So maybe my dirty little secret has ruined my reputation, but I sacrificed myself for YOU, to teach you that head lice is not the worst thing in the world. A cure is as easy as one-two-three, and if the pharmacist who hands you the shampoo seems like the judging type, simply bash his face in by the dumpster when his shift is over.
So let’s re-cap: Don’t tell ANYONE, physically assault a pharmacist if necessary, shampoo hard, and don’t forget to burn your sheets.
Also, please don’t tell anyone I told you this.
Join me for a personal shout-out, to the inventors of disgusting flowered essence.
To be honest, I abhor the smell of flowered perfume, but to the grannies of our time who chase the scent like it’s a club-pack size of Depends on sale for $9.99, flowery perfume is a gift!
If flowery perfume had never happened, what would grannies do? Older ladies crave the lavender/rosy essence, it’s in the genetic code (a complicated code that stays dormant ‘till the grannies’ loss of teeth or will to live, or both.)
More importantly, what would I do? Because I’m pretty sure I want to live to the age of “granny”, when my deeds are remembered as epic, and when my younger self watches over the city square as a bronzed fountain. So what would “granny-Romi” do if “eau de fleur” was discontinued?
I’d hit the source is what I’d do, the way a heroin addict hops on a plane to Colombia.
In my case I’d go outside and find the nearest public garden. I would rip a row of aromatic flora from their roots and start to rub. I’d rub those flowers over my neck and when that wasn’t enough, I’d expose my granny collarbone and rub some more.
Okay I have to stop there.
I hope you have seen my point or maybe I have blinded you with it. The point is that convenient little bottles of flowered poison are what keep the world’s grannies in check. In fact grannies should stay behind closed doors as a general rule. That’s not me making an asshole statement, that’s society who stuffs the elderly in their own special compounds, where they’re not allowed to interact with the young and fabulous. An entire building of old-people smell, and teenage volunteers who need “x” amount of bed-pan-changing hours to graduate.
Sorry for the truth bomb, society, but that’s what we do.
So if society has already determined that the elderly should be contained, the disappearance of flowered perfume would interfere with the lockdown! It would be like a modified scene from a zombie movie; escaped, confused, slow-moving grannies with tilted heads, sniffing around for gardens or flower-shops, desperate to rub their collarbones with unsuspecting petals.
Nobody needs to see that. Like ever.
So sure, scrunch your noise at the nearest granny’s nasty flowered essence, but remember ladies, one day that will be us, and dammit we will need the supply.
So thank you, flowered perfume factory, keep the quota nicely humming…
(PS to all the men: disgusting flowered perfume doesn’t help you in any way so I have no consolation. But hey, sometimes the woman’s needs matter more so just be quiet and learn how to deal.)
It was a Friday night like any other, spent alone at my local zoo, scratching the chin of my favourite caged chimp Bobo. He stretched out one of his telescopic fingers to caress my cheek. Wrinkly to the touch and smelling of yesterday’s sewage (as opposed to the aromatic fresh stuff), I felt innocent love in his caress. But like any good moment of pleasure, I ruined it with uninvited brain waves.
I wondered how affectionate Bobo would be, if he wasn’t inside that cage. I wondered if Bobo knew that once upon a time, humans were chimp-like too. I wondered if Bobo realized that by a random act of Darwinism a long time ago, humans became all sexy and took over the earth, while he and his homies turned out gross and live in cages, just for our human amusement.
And then the most troubling thought: what if Bobo knows all of this? And what if he’s plotting his revenge?
I don’t know about you, but I like the view from up top. Evolution was amazing. It helped us grow out of our ape-face and shaggy-ape hair. And my god, just look at our cheekbones and bodacious bodies!
If the hotness progression wasn’t enough, we became really smart and assumed full control of the earth (then ruined it for the most part, but let’s not split hairs).
So we’re livin’ and lovin’ and destroyin’, but what if Bobo spills the beans to his simian peers?
They’re not that smart, but they ARE smart enough to band together. I’m sure one of them could steal the zookeeper’s keys, and if word spreads fast enough (even a monkey can figure out an iPhone), it could happen in every zoo around the world.
And then we’re finished.
Fugitive chimps burning houses, punching mailboxes, and tossing feces, until eventually WE’RE all locked in iron cages, with only last month’s issue of People magazine and a Mars bar. Meanwhile the chimps drive our cars and bed our women (I have a feeling the chimps would bed our women and enjoy it…we have a history together after all).
And you know what would happen with unfortunate chimp-to-human breeding?
The fall of the human race, and the Museum of Natural History come to life (minus the now insufferable Ben Stiller, who will never repeat his incredible performance in “Zoolander”).
I don’t know about you, but I’m not ready to give up the keys, so as long as we still have ‘em…let’s enjoy!
Enjoy sexy, enjoy evolved, enjoy human.
So beautiful, so pure, and with a horn containing magical healing powers, we all want unicorns to exist.
NO WE DON’T!
Imagine if unicorns were discovered in our lifetime. Now please imagine World War III, because whichever country these ethereal beasts were discovered in (my guess is Luxembourg), invasion would swiftly follow.
World War III would end on the basis of cloning. The United Nations would promise a unicorn to every man, woman, and child.
But who would be in charge of quality control?
Cloning is all well and cute when you’re simply doubling up on a sheep named Dolly, but exponential cloning of unicorns? It won’t be long before the magic of unicorns is watered down; it’s like cutting lines of coke with powdered sugar, just not the same. Predictably, the wealthy will snatch up all the earliest clones, leaving the poor folk with glorified horses that only have a two-inch horn.
And what about the horses, by the way? Up until now the beauty of horses has been captured in films and books; they are infinitely loved by those who own stables or those who can afford to take a ride.
Well not if the unicorns sauntered in!
The influx of magical unicorns would devalue the plain old horses. They’d be tossed from the stables and left to survive in an unforgiving world. It’s like in Southern Cali where the beautiful people always get by, and the ugly people are homeless or work in valet.
So if you care even a lick for horses, world peace, and the sanctity of unicorn magic, you are as happy as I am that they’ve never been discovered…