They can make or break you, right? Isn’t that the thing? Make the wrong one and risk it all? Don’t risk it and lose a chance at a huge opportunity? How is it that there are so many of these life altering moments in our lives? How is it that each step we take is somehow monumental in the grand scheme of cause and effect?
Or, maybe none of it is as consequential as we think.
Maybe we’re all just a bunch of corn flakes floating in a bowl of milk.
Someone told me that once. Someone important. Not in the way a president is important, but important to me, in my life. Important in the grand scheme of all that was and is and will be, me.
It’s weird how that happens. One little thing someone said can stick with you and prod your brain and conscience at the least expected moment; something only you recall; something the other person barely recollects, if at all. You ponder these things and begin to wonder, how am I important? Have I ever changed someone’s life? The great Autobiography: How Do I Matter, and Who Have I Wronged?
I’m doing the old Rory Gilmore Pros and Cons thing that reaches way past Rory Gilmore and probably originates somewhere around drawing on a cave wall with a charred stick. Back before they even had a word for “stick.”
I’ve got the practicalities in order and the physicality weighed and measured and I’m sitting here wondering just how much each thing should be valued. If I were an orderly person who didn’t organize their closet on their bedroom floor and judge things’ cleanliness by smell and dirt count, then I’d rate things on a point system. As it is, I’ve got three-day old socks on my feet and I like to cook pasta in the microwave to save time.
The thing I keep coming back to–the big thing, the whopper double cheese burger with bacon and special sauce and a heart attack on the side thing– is what would make me happy?
It’s a luxury I am grateful to have, and I am not a high maintenance girl. (I asked for a printer for Christmas. And a copy of The Dead Poet’s Society. And brand new notebooks and pens make me ridiculously happy.) Still, the fact that I can even have such a beautiful choice as “What would make me happiest?” is amazing. I should have added some more colorful language in there because that’s how I speak. Ceruleanly amazing. Pastel Pink happy.
What? You want me to say it? Fucking amazing. It would be fucking amazing.
Don’t give me any of that “lowest form of wit” lunacy, either. Or, “Women shouldn’t speak that way.” I’ll cut you.
Not really. Don’t call your mom. I’m not actually going to cut anyone. God, why are we so sensitive these days?
Anyway, that’s what I’m getting at. Not that I’m going to cut you. Or that people are sensitive. That we should, at all times, if we can, do what makes us happy. Because, really, we’re kidding ourselves if we’re miserable. We’re wasting minutes, hours, days, years. We’re wasting lifetimes.