The Greek root sarx refers to "flesh as it has been cut from the body" and is the underlying sentiment of sarcasm. Admittedly, I have been chastised for indulging in this kind of cheap humor at the expense of another, though I still tend to view sarcasm unequivocally acceptable when directed at oneself. Self deprecation my friends, is the lesson of the day.
So as not to alarm anyone, (and by anyone, I mean my Mom or Dad who are the only ones still feverishly checking this blog even after six months of my writers block) let me preface the following by making clear the purpose of this entry as comedic relief. I possess neither intent to carve additional slits into my body nor be launched from any tall balconies; and besides, prescription drugs suffice to numb the pain at least for the time being.
Now, where was I? Oh, yes yes. I have been thinking, and it's become my belief that were there a formal committee dedicated to inducting worthy candidates into its privileged caste, I'd by now be maintaining a prominent leadership position in the Loser Hall of Fame. I'm not quite sure when I transitioned from bad-ass, to bad, to ass, but insidious (dis)evolution aside, this is me now: nearly 26 years old and fallen from grace.
I scribble these pages from the same bedroom once flanked with Backstreet Boys pinups, glow in the dark stars, and high school dance photos; in the same pink stucco suburban cookie-cutter home I grew old; and so, with the same mother who has never ceased to lose sleep over the frequency with which I remember(forget) to take my vitamins. We have had at least three sets of next-door neighbors come and go, but alas, I remain the same-nearly 26 and still living at home. That said, I had recently felt a kernel of hope in anticipation of the (morally debasing shroud that cloaks my happiness letting-up) springtime finale of my 2.5 year stint at the local community college, though this was soon thereafter negated by the realization that in spite of my 6.5 years as an undergraduate, I am still one semester deficient of English Composition by most academic institutions' standards. Anyway, I too have been putting my other skills to test outside of the classroom by working as the Manager of a local rowing club; this is my self-affirming way of saying that people rely on me for things like maintaining a sufficient supply of Simple Green and MRSA-grade disinfecting wipes. And don't you be fooled by those advocates of mine who chalk all this up to being a "temporary means to an end". While my return to university (ahem, uhhh, community college) WAS only meant to be two years, it will be at minimum three and a half years given my having been rejected from every single graduate program to which I applied (except of course the two whose committees were too appalled by my application to formulate any response). In either case, neither 2 nor 3.5 years is temporary by any standard, and especially not when it comprises 1/5th of life as you know/remember it. Ok, ok, things aren't really THAT bad. On the bright side, at least I've only gained 10 pounds since high school and have been able to strike some relative success in the dating scene. In fact, about eight months ago I went out on a single date with a handsome fella who I met on the internet; though I reckon I may have been too jaded to make for good company because in spite of our four hour rendezvous, I failed to notice that his left limb had been missing from the elbow onward (and yes, it had been MIA for the entirety of our date). Suffice it to say he never called again, nor did I.
Thank the heavens above for Mom, Dad, my therapist, and of course, Kate Bush & Peter Gabriel, for affording me the zest to keep truckin'... and with that my friends, I leave you with this little gem courtesy of the 1980's. Now off to wash down my Cymbalta with a tall glass of pre-bedtime self-affirmations.
