This Is the Abridged Version, On Account of I Am Lazy

I went out for a beer last night with a friend, and then we ran into another friend, and then we made a friend, although I don't believe she ever told us her name. But then it's hard to remember all that when you're so trashed that you start hatching schemes sure to win you a Darwin award.

"I want a log cabin that's built around a tree, and I want the tree to be a chimney."
"But...then it would burn."
"No no no! I would scorch it. I would scorch it really, really well, and then it would be fire resistant."

Our new friend flicked the ashes from her cigarette into our bowl of pretzels and continued, claiming that, while she did want to live in a forest, she couldn't always tell the difference between forests and cities.

"Well, what if there were more trees than people?"
"See, now that's a forest."

She took a pretzel, swirled it in the salt and ash at the bottom of the bowl, and popped it in her mouth. I tasted it vicariously, the ash gritty and wet between my teeth, and, grimacing, washed it down with a swallow of beer.

And then our friend was standing, grabbing her empty glass, and deserting us - she was, apparently, in search of more beer. It was only after she left that we noticed her wallet, also deserted, sitting on the table. Rachel picked it up and turned it over in her hands, saying:

"You know, if we weren't such nice people..."

Because I'm Feeling Random

A few nights ago I listened to someone sing the praises of the word "obfuscate," and found myself thinking that as far as word-loving goes, claiming an attachment to "obfuscate" seems kind of pretentious. I stand by that point - or would, if I'd made the point in the first place, instead of just nodding and then mentioning that "exacerbate" is a kick-ass word - because really, listening to people ramble on about obfuscation annoys me. And yes, I have heard enough obfuscation-centered rambles in my day to know whether or not it annoys me. Sad but true.

And honestly, I don't even like "obfuscate" that well. It sounds congested and muddy. It's like that sound people make when they're talking too fast and stumbling over words, when their voices get all fuzzy and saliva builds, and the syllables are spit out all wet and cloudy - when the mumbling fogs up the glass of the sentence so you can't see a damn thing and just drive blindly through the conversation. And then, sometimes? You crash. Into a semi-truck of confusion.

Wow. I don't think it's possible to stretch that metaphor any further. The poor thing is just begging for mercy.

Anyway, what I'm trying to say here is that the sound of "obfuscate" is perfectly matched to its meaning; and while I usually find this quality endearing, in this case it kind of annoys me.

It just sounds like an SAT word - which it probably is. But I took the ACT, so who knows. (I've often wondered what my SAT score would have been. Everyone says the SAT is harder, so although I kicked half of the ACT's ass - its linguistic buttcheek, if you will - I've always suspected that the SAT would have kicked mine. Both cheeks. And left bruises.)

So yeah. Obfuscate. It looks icky typed. If spellings were foods, o-b-f-u-s-c-a-t-e would be fried coke. (People say it's delicious, but come on. That's gross.) And although obfuscate has its uses, I generally feel that the people who like it are constantly trying to show me up. Maybe it's the way they enunciate it. They have this tendency to stomp on each syllable, kicking them into my brain until they become permanently embedded in its coils.

OB-foo-skate.

Uck.

You know what word I like? Elegiac. It's such a clear, precise word. It's like glass. If I tapped on it, I think it would ping.

But obfuscate? I don't think you could tap on it. You could only poke it, and if it made any sound at all, it would be a squelch - the squelch of an obese person walking barefoot through a swamp.


----------------------------------------------------------------------------------


The sad thing about this entry is that it is a frighteningly accurate look into my mind. I once went on a date with a guy who told me that I always looked deep in thought, and that he found it intimidating. "I feel like you're analyzing everything. It freaks me out."

"Well," I said, "it shouldn't. I'm not thinking anything very interesting. My brain doesn't sleep, but that doesn't mean it's all that active, either. It's just lying awake, wishing it hadn't had all that coffee."

He really didn't get my wit. That, coupled with his bigotry ("I don't care about any country that ends in -stan"), kind of made it impossible for me to enjoy myself. Although dinner was good. (On a side note, if you want to get a guy to leave you alone, just tell him you identify with Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction. It's instant man repellent.)

So, in closing: loving "obfuscate" makes you a pretentious asshat, my brain is a congealed lump of pointless musings, and countries that end in -stan are good.

(I just corrected the best typo ever: "obfuscare." As in, scared, but in a vague, blurry way. I'm so going to use that in conversation.)

I'm Hungover, Okay? This Is As Deep As It Gets.

Sometimes I sit and try to imagine what I'll be like when I'm old. I look at my hands and picture them thin and wrinkled, with bulging blue veins, or envision the future lines on my face - brackets at the corners of my mouth, crow's feet clawing their way to my ears. I wonder whether I'll be thin and delicate, with severe osteoporosis, or cheerfully dumpy, with heart disease. Will I wear polyester pantsuits, or live in skirts? Will I embroider cushions, or will I scrapbook? (Embroider, probably. I don't have many pictures.)

The image I usually end up with is one of a tiny, hunched-over woman with crinkly skin and a hair net. She wears "sensible shoes" and carries a parasol, occasionally using the curved handle to poke bratty youngsters in the shin. She calls it trespassing when people step on her lawn, and has three cats who all hate each other.

She attempts to cook, and is constantly baking bread for people, but although the bread is terrible, no one has the heart to tell her so. They thank her profusely every time she stops by with a new loaf, and then, once she's gone, they toss it in the trash. The bread is so dry, it crumbles where it falls. Even the banana bread is dry.

In all my versions of the story I'm a spinster, and bitter as hell. I'm a little like Barbara in Notes on a Scandal, if I'm being honest. Of course, Barbara wouldn't bake bread, and I'm not a lesbian, and I can't imagine ever being cruel enough to completely destroy someone's life the way she does to Sheba's, but I have her acerbity, and air of disdain. (Disdain masking a crippling insecurity, as it usually does.)

Okay, truly, I don’t believe I’ll end up like this, but I can’t envision any alternatives. Sweet pie-baking granny? Um, no. Red Hat Society member? Hell, no. Spry, athletic spitfire of a senior? Well, I could probably be a spitfire, but I’ve never been spry.

The funny thing is that I really enjoy talking to old people - I find them interesting – but I dread becoming one. I worry that I’ll be the wrong type of old person: the bitter, angry type, who missed out on everything, and only realizes it when it’s too late. A person who goes from angry but functional to angry and senile, who becomes a burden on people who never wanted to hang out with her in the first place.

I’ve heard so many people say that once they’re senile, they don’t want to live anymore. I get where they’re coming from, and I usually feel the same way, but ultimately I know that I will cling to the last remaining shreds of my life the way Madonna clings to relevancy. Pathetically.

Which is all just a rather long-winded and not terribly articulate way of saying that I am utterly terrified of death and the last dozen or so years leading up to it, and would prefer to stay twenty-one and aimless for the rest of time. You know?