My Reality

Have you ever wondered what song would be playing during a certain scene of your personal reality show?

Lord knows I have. Sometimes I see myself on the water, the stars shining and the moon glowing against the dark sky. Pensively, I sigh and inhale through my nose, eyes closed. Journey's "Lights" plays softly. Maybe this scene was right after a particularly hard week--a week full of smelly people on the Seattle Metro, a few reprimands at work, and a spat with the roommates over how, no, really, paper towels go in the yard waste can--NOT THE GARBAGE.

Other times, perhaps I'm sitting alone at Leny's, the dive bar a couple blocks up from our house. Overweight men with exposed butt-cracks are playing darts and pool around me; I sip some sort of cheap beer--Natty, PBR, Busch--from a mason jar. The air is hazy. The jukebox plays Toby Keith's "I Love this Bar" and I discuss with my new friend, Cledus, how much I miss keg beer and fraternity parties in the woods.

Then an opportunity to get me out of town and out of my funk takes me to Germany. The camera flashes to me fist-pumping on the floor of a discotheque. A strobe light allows only glimpses of me surrounded by a slew of toe-headed Europeans, one of which, is actually my American friend, Shelby--the friend who went on exchange, found a European boyfriend, and never came back. "Numa Numa" can be heard over the loud speakers. I grin and twirl.

Then it's back to the city and back to the grind. Flashes of me on the bus, crossing sidewalks, maneuvering (Matrix style) around all the tourists in Pike Place Market. Some sort of Tony Bennet plays giving the tourists exactly what they want.

Finally, I'm driving. The sun roof is open. The windows are down. My hair is blowing in the wind. I remove it from my lipgloss. It proceeds to stick to my face. But I must remember that this is all in the spirit of good TV. I watch in front of me as fields of onions and apple orchards flash by. And what's playing this time? "Mama, I'm comin' home" -- Ozzy Osbourne.

Sometimes it's more exciting, soon I'm sure it will be. For now, it is what it is.

Heavy Petting

Have you ever thought, Why are you wearing that t-shirt when you're so fat?

I know it sounds callous, but what if that shirt was inmate orange and said, "Life's short. Pet hard"? Then, do you think you'd reevaluate your judgement of me and my black heart? That's what I thought. There are certain things in life that just shouldn't be advertised, especially on clothing: how much you like to drink, whether or not you're disease free, how "hott" you are (news flash: this is like an extension of the whole "Wow, I never even knew he was that rich" phenomenon--when you've got it, you don't have to constantly tell people you do), your political affiliation, the whole Joe's Crabshack "Got Crabs?" campaign, how hard you think people should pet others, and if you're Macy Gray, the release date of your upcoming album (on a stone-washed denim jumpsuit, nonetheless--really, Macy? REALLY?!).

I don't even know where you could purchase a t-shirt like that. Maybe I'm too quick to jump to conclusions. Maybe that t-shirt wearing petter got it as a hand-me-down from a drunk uncle. Maybe it was a cruel joke. All I know is if I saw my friend/child/brother/sister/family member of any kind wearing something like that, I would do the world a favor and sneak into their closet while they're sleeping, or, you know, off petting something/someone and burn the thing.