the crowned jewels

On Wednesday I cauterized the last major arterial supply to Italy, loading the few possessions I have into another dodgy white van screaming toward london (too soon?). I think any painful conscious uncoupling as Ms Paltrow would have put it (same woman who admits to taking her eggs not scrambled nor poached but up her cooter) had already been done because it was business as usual rather than wistful emotion for me. 36 hours were just enough to load up the goods, take a quick spin around the city on a two wheeler, have my favorite salty pistachio gelato, and indulge in the delight of the bidet. I'm really going to miss the bidet, and should I ever manage to get on the property ladder in london it's going to become the focal point of my studio apartment. 

On Saturday I will move into my very own living space in London. Since April I have been shacking up with dad which started out kind of awkward but has evolved into something pretty symbiotic. He delivers tea to me on my air mattress every morning, gives me random pocket money to get a mani pedi or bar of chocolate, listens and even cheerleads while I bitch about bureaucracy, cooks me curries, and generally contributes to an endless supply of banter and malarkey. He is not only effectively setting a high bar for any prospective boyfriend, but beginning to make me consider whether I would actually even ever need or want one. We do get into fights sometimes though, the most recent of which because he insisted that chicken katsu was the same phonetically or otherwise as chicken cazzo. If you're italian or Japenese or even if you're not you know that chicken cazzo is NOT the same as chicken katsu. Just google it. But he is too stubborn to admit defeat by his progeny. It's counter evolutionary or something. 

Dad and I have also had a musical meeting of the minds. He is righteously into all things jazz, me not so much. I find that particular genre of music kind of chaotic and lacking a coherent rhythm to which I can swivel my hips or nod my head. Still, I have joined him on an occasional Saturday night at the local jazz club, and he just a few days ago surprised me by blasting Future's Mask Off (Molly Percocet) across all the Sonos in the house before 9am, exclaiming that "there was a decided jazz melody reminiscent of John Coltrane with that little flute diddy in the background. Just listen!"  *turns up the volume*. 

See? same same. 

I have found that I'm integrating nicely into my new culture. My google search history includes queries such as "how do you pronounce scone" and my autocorrect has already started changing "program" to "programme" and "while" to "whilst". "Bloody" has become an essential part of my lexicon, "shag" not so much. I even made a friend, although I think my dad may have paid her off. She is the local barista from Poland. A mega babe, my age, fun, and makes a bitchin' cortado. I have also gotten my national insurance number (equivalent to social security or codice fiscale), a bank account, a contracted cell phone, found a flat and moved my crap, gotten a start date on my new job, applied for Irish citizenship, registered with the national health service, voted (liberal democrat) at the national election, and read more pleasure books than I probably have in the last 10 years. 

After a painful 3 month process I was also finally granted full registration and license to practice in the UK! The governing body made me jump through all kinds of hoops up to and including taking the IELTS exam to affirm that I have appropriate command over the english language. The fact that all my written and verbal communication with them had been in English was not sufficient, and I had to shell out 200 bones and tremble in anxiety about whether this would have been THE thing to take me down the deepest sewer of self loathing. It is intense, lasts several hours, and tests not only your reading, writing, listening, and speaking capabilities, but also your time management, ability to work efficiently under pressure, and in the environment of a fucking antarctic ice box. The aircon was turned up so high that my fingers turned blue and became arthritic, nearly precluding me from writing my essay on the current political conundrum regarding climate change (particularly ironic given the circumstance). I failed in my attempts to stay warm by fidgeting in my seat and picking the black lint off my white pants in between exam sections. And then once it was all done, I had to wait with bated breath for two weeks, considering the possibility that my listening skills (admittedly poor when it comes to banal everyday convos) might have been THE thing to interrupt my progression toward functioning adult member of society. The eventual humiliation of not passing an english language test was too much to bear and in those weeks I repeatedly picked off all my nail polish, split ends, and loose fibers on all my clothes. But rejoice was had when in the end the results came out and I had effected a perfect score, the certificate of which will join the pile of papers awaiting to be framed.

As for the concerns regarding safety, thank you to everyone who has called or texted to check up on me during recent extremist acts of violence. It's true the city hasn't gotten much gleaming publicity lately, but I will say that Londoners appear decidedly more concerned about Brexit than they do terrorism. Keep calm and carry on, as they say. And they really do. 

My dad used to tell me that he's not in favo(u)r of returning to the same places twice because they're never the same as you remember it. That always stuck with me. But on the morning of my final hours in Milan, I went back to the same coffee shop where I had had my first ever cappuccino on Christmas Eve 2010. At the time, my eyes were bright and it was the sweetest, most perfectly blended velvety drink of my life. The brioche was warm and crispy. The space was filled with fresh flowers and promise. This Wednesday morning though, the drink was watery, the brioche cold and soggy, and the plants lacking their usual vibrance. I couldn't help but be reminded of something someone once said to me- I'm not looking for something better, just something different. And in that moment I finally felt exactly the same. So off I went Wednesday evening to my new home, not gentle into that good night, but on a new kind of mission. One that trades coffee for tea, brioche for porridge, and hails a crowned matriarch. 

bye bitch!

the chicken kitchen clerk

Lately I can't help but boil this magnanimous miracle of Life down to a continued sequence of isolated and annoying parts, seemingly aimed at validating the aphorism that it always gets worse before it gets better.

Just for fun, the other day I decided to self administer a Holmes and Rahe Stress Test which effectively lists 43 major life stressors and attaches a "life change units" score to each point. A score above 150 puts you at moderate risk for illness and a score above 300 puts you at high risk for illness. 

I scored 450. 

(scoring low always stressed me out anyway). 

All this extra systemic excitement probably explains why I have had another visit by that herpetic gift that has kept on giving for 10 years in the depths of my right nostril (so close it could reach out and touch my brain). I have also had a sore throat, fever, and over the course of three weeks broken out in hives almost every day on various parts of my body.

One of the points on the Holmes & Rahe Stress Scale is "changing residence" which accounts for a minuscule 20 life change points; I would have expected more. I genuinely thought that moving to an english speaking country would have been cake compared to moving to Italy when I didn't speak Italian. Nope. Same same. I am once again the frequent recipient of the unsettling blank stare for what I can only understand to be consequence of the bad jokes I tell and/or the incomprehensible accent I possess. I am also perpetually confused about what time I'm supposed to be anywhere because Brits say things like "see you at half eleven" and I don't know if that means 10:30, 11:30, or 5:30. (If your logic also brought you to 5:30 then I love you and we should be mates.) 

Construction is still going on here at my father's residence where I'm indefinitely on the very comfortable air mattress. The electricity and plumbing shuts off spontaneously and the convos between dad and me tend to go like this:

Dad: "No pooping or flushing the loo for the next 2 hours!!!!!!!!!!!"

Me: Can I shower?

Dad: "Yes that's fine"

Me: Can I poop in the shower?

In effort to have some social interaction and calm the fuck down, I succumbed to the Tinder machine, only to wake up the morning after a late afternoon date with angioedema of my lip, without even having had physical contact with the stranger. So 72 hours after having very publicly marketed myself desperate for a man who could make me laugh, I deleted the app and am back to spending time with my dad, mostly in the kitchen, requesting his assistance to document the hives on my bare ass. Dad happens to be a semi professional photographer and quite fussy about capturing the f-stop and aperture on my welts in the correct way, staging these certifiably awkward photo shoots in the kitchen while the blinds are open. I'm pretty sure the brick layers in the back have some strong opinions about what kind of deviant household we comprise. 

My dad has actually been very helpful in assisting me on the path to legitimacy in this country. Yesterday he picked up some paperwork and a pee cup for me to register with the National Health Service as well as a local general practitioner. Naturally I urinated all over my hand and then presented to the doctor's office with the relevant forms, only to discover that I'd been trudging along the streets of Hertfordshire with body fluids in my purse unnecessarily. I'll have my first appointment next week. Hopefully the GP will be able to present me a toolbox by which I can try to lower my Holmes & Rahe score so that I can stop catastrophizing my life and get a hold on myself. I have been so exhausted that my emotions have become embarrassingly unrestrained. Yesterday I cried three times: the first was around 8am while watching the instagram video of blogger Chiara Ferragni and Italian rapper Fedez get engaged at his concert in Verona. The second was at 3:00pm when I re-watched the instagram video of blogger Chiara Ferragni and Italian rapper Fedez get engaged at his concert in Verona. And the third was at 3:30pm when my dad came home with a desk from the charity shop for me so that I could have a proper place to write. I cried more in secret as he polished it up for me. And I may or may not be crying right now as I sit here typing.

Meanwhile I sort through my woes, dad complains about the fact that his impending 1 week vacation is not long enough because it takes him that much just for his reading speed to amass enough momentum to reach its maximum velocity. At which point I yell "first world problems" and he launches into a monologue about how he invented that phrase 10 years ago. Seems like we're back to the same mutual parent-adolescent eye rolling dynamic we once had.

Finally, in the dizzying holding pattern that is waiting to receive a national insurance number granting me the right to work in the UK, I have somehow been subscribed to a site that posts job openings. This Orwellian style advertising doesn't even surprise or scare me anymore. Last night I got an email from Snagajob exhorting me to apply for various food service positions in Wilmington, North Carolina, the most compelling of which was as a "Chicken Kitchen Clerk". I can't say what kind of websites I have been frequenting to fall into this algorithm of relevant marketing, but as the photographs of the wheals of my butt would corroborate, it's true that I am literally itching to work.

But London, you beautiful creature, I trust you'll soon be worth it. 

on starting over

My spiritually minded friends would protest that I'm not starting over, rather, piling new life experience on top of a continuous process of growth that knows no continental limits. It's a lovely thought, but this free spirited kumbaya hand-holding attitude does little more than reveal that they've never moved countries while mercury is in retrograde.

I identify more with Bukowski at this particular moment:

"what makes a man a writer?"

"well, it's simple. You either get it down on paper, or jump off a bridge."

or Kafka:

"every revolution evaporates and leaves behind only the slime of a new bureaucracy."

The fact that I am a UK citizen with alleged rights has done little by way of sheltering me from being made to feel like everything I attempt to do is a criminal act. As a result, until my affairs are in order, I have accepted the generous invitation by my father to stay with him in the suburbs outside London until I am more than 50% sure Her Royal Highness isn't going to bulldoze my life with her Range Rover (love her!) and send me back to wherever I came from. 

There is not much to do in this small town beyond the nail salon, gym and funeral home. The house is under construction so I'm indefinitely on a very comfortable air mattress and presently listening to the builders listen to "No Scrubs" by TLC while I scheme how and where I might find a friend outside of a book. 

Last week while attempting to buy an avocado and a pack of "not too hot not too mild" green peppers, the cashier stopped me to make a comparative analysis of the signature on my credit card receipt with that of my driver's license. She analyzed my appearance with much suspicion, to which I responded by gently reminding her that:

1. The photo on my ID is obviously me and the name matches the name on the credit card 

[fail.]

2. I had signed the document digitally with my finger which is not the same as signing a paper document with a pen 

[fail.]

and finally, as a humiliating last ditch effort to be left alone with my not too hot not too mild green peppers:

3. I am a doctor and my signature has become more sloppy over the years

[fail fail fail.]

At this point the ninety-something cashier was so riddled with disbelief over my identity and quite possibly feeling bullied both by my vulgar American accent and pink hair, that she paged the store manager to provide reinforcement. Anyway, in the end I got my avocados, but not without a fight. 

I'm off to open a bank account. The bank of England requires proof of my address at:

Air Mattress
Hertfordshire
United Kingdom

But only a predetermined official document will suffice as proof:

-Utility bill with my name on it

[fail.]

-Bank account with my address attached

[fail. i mean, are you effing kidding me? the employees don't even seem to understand the irony behind requiring proof of a bank account in order to open a bank account]

-Voter Registration Card

[fail.] 

The final bullet point seemed to be my only hope, so I log onto the voter website and begin the registration process. Initially it seems pretty straightforward, until the final portion of the application where I am asked to enter my national insurance number- the equivalent of the American social security number or codice fiscale in Italy.

[fail.]  

So I google:

"h-o-w  t-o   g-e-t   N-a-t-i-o-n-a-l   I-n-s-u-r-a-n-c-e   N-u-m-b-e-r"

I book an appointment by phone for the following week and am required to bring proof of identity and "acceptable" proof of address:

-utility bill with my name and address on it (here we go again).

[FAIL.]

-bank statement with my name and address on it

[FAIL.] 

-Voter Registration Card

[fail fail fail.] How is this even possible? I need a voter registration card for a bank account, but need NI number for voter registration card. But need bank account for NI number. 

I plead with the woman over the phone who agrees to allow me to bring in a letter from my father confirming that I have residency on his air mattress until further notice.

I attend the interview for the national insurance number accompanied by my father who is immediately asked to wait outside the building because inside there is a "no wait policy". Right. 

I present with a portfolio of all the documents that make me ME, all my passports even the expired ones, birth certificates from America, UK, Hungary. Letters. All the letters that exist for anything. My official documents. Dad's official documents. University Diplomas. Transcripts. Pap Smear Results. I am extremely and overly prepared. I am called for my interview and despite my right to work in the UK, I am nervous as if I were being prosecuted:

[Woman stares at me suspiciously.]

"So, why do you want a national insurance number?"

So I can work in this country.

"You have never worked in this country?"

I have never lived nor worked in this country.

"Are you married?"

No.

[Looks at me verrrryy suspiciously]. "Have you ever been married?"

No. [Suspicion heightens]

"Are you single?" 

[She upward inflects 'single' forcing me to wonder whether these were official questions or just manifestations of her own curiosity.

"Yes"

[This sends her into a frantic assault of her computer keyboard for about 45 seconds, after which she looks back up at me.]

"So you're single and you've never been married?" 

That is correct. 

[Returns to frantically typing on computer keyboard.]

"Ok, please sign here."

[I sign. She looks at my passport and then at my signature.] 

"Your signatures don't match."

[AGAIN? Really?! I am too exasperated to try a different tactic so I recite the same script from the supermarket the week before]:

The photo on my ID is obviously me and the name matches the name on the passport. 

[fail.]

I had signed the document digitally with my finger which is not the same as signing a paper document with pen 

[fail.]

and finally, as a humiliating last ditch effort to be left alone with my not too hot not too mild green peppers national insurance number:

I am a doctor and my signature has become more sloppy over the years.

[SUCCESS.]

"Why of course it has! I will put a note in your file attesting that your signature has changed over the years and that you cannot replicate it. You will get a response from us within 3-4 weeks as to whether or not we have approved you for a national insurance number."

Wait so I am a British Citizen and a doctor with an offer to work at a major London Hospital, no felonies no arrests no work or marriage or adoption issues that could complicate my application, but you might deny me of the right to work? 

"Well not me, specifically, but, yes. If we are not in touch with you by May 22 please call this number. Here is your reference number. Bye." 

It was almost as warm a welcome to the country as the fifty-something drunk chap at the corner pub who watched me roll by with my suitcase on the way home from the train station:

"OY! OYYYY!! LUV! Whee ya frum?!!" [spills beer over railing]

"California."

"Oh I've bin theh! It's shhhhite!" [Laughs, spills pint over railing]

Anyway, as much as I hate to use it, sometimes the "I'm a doctor" thing works. People have this perception that if you're a doctor you're rich and trustworthy and really got your life together. The reality is that I'm in my 30's and technically jobless and homeless. My pants have been on backwards for 17 hours and I've got so much dry shampoo in my hair that fruit flies keep getting stuck in it. 

It was time to have a shower and head into London. I made plans with an Italian friend who arranged "tickets" for us for Friday night. She is a generally vague person but also highly cultured so I took it to mean she arranged after-dinner theater or art or music tickets. 

NO.

I arrive. We grab some Asian food in Bethnal Green which is famously Jack the Ripper territory, and where Martina casually mentions that the last time she was there, there was a murder in the park across the street. She walks me into a dark, empty alley while I launch into a monologue on twisted Italian literature and she listens intently while finishing her cigarette.  We walk up to an anonymous black door against a graffitied brick wall and she knocks. A skinny, shaved headed guy answers.

"are you on the list?"

Yes.

"there is no list. Come in"

The doorman then draws a penis on each of our hands with thick permanent black marker and lets us in. 

There is loud cheering and a wrestling ring. It's Lucha Britannia. I'm pushed right up to the front just in time to watch the previous match end and the next act begin.

A voluptuous woman comes out in a bear suit and does a strip tease to the tune of Ludacris' "What's your Fantasy". Very different from the week I'd spent reading books and watching the builders stack cinder blocks (who by the way are now listening to Will Smith's "Gettin Jiggy Wit It"). 

I spent Saturday at the Wellcome Trust Museum and on Saturday night had dinner with my Italian friends at a pizza place in Southwark called "O'ver" which in dialect means "REALLY?!" or "WTF?!". It reminded me about my feelings on the fact that there are no bloody electrical sockets permitted in bathrooms in this country.

On Sunday I embarked upon a social experiment of sorts in search of a new friend. Somebody. Anybody. I walked down to Pop Brixton, ordered a big bloody mary and sat by myself with a book in hopes that a stranger might come and talk to me. It never happened. Well, twice I had a near success when someone tapped me on the shoulder asking if I could slide down on the bench to make space for them and their burger. 

I have been in England for a week. This may be the country of royalty, the beloved Prince Harry and cream tea, but in the more appropriately revised words of Ed Sheeran- the bar isn't a good place to find love, so the buffet is where I go. 

For now, I'll stick to my books, my bureaucracy, and my air mattress. 

ciao ciao italia

On my final morning as a resident of Milan, I watched the moon rise over Torre Velasca, and everything felt decidedly symbolic. This building has been voted again and again one of the world's ugliest structures, but when it was propositioned to be bulldozed, the people of Milan revolted. It is an icon, one of the city's greatest treasures.

One of the things I have so desperately loved about this city is how little it gives away for free. It is a place that has to be worked for.  It is raw. Harsh but in its hidden compartments so delicate, ugly yet strikingly beautiful, grungy but so impeccably chic.

In a country that inherently possesses an exaggerated richness of landscape, architecture, art, culture, and cuisine, Milan stands alone as the easily overlooked and frequently misunderstood black swan of the boot.  There is nothing obvious about it. It is not a city that attracts people in search of an easy life or a dreamy weekend getaway. It is driven by hunger and perhaps a bit of madness.  It is possessed by those in pursuit of a dream, meanwhile equivalently dedicated to the pursuit of pleasure, in that way only Italians really know how.

I passed both the most difficult and most beautiful years of my life in Italy. The greatness it and its inhabitants possess petitioned my humility, the cultural richness and rigidity forced me to adapt. This city does not accept anything but the best version of yourself. I have never known a community to be so vested in helping, supporting, loving, and generally enjoying the company of its members. What Italians lose in nationalism they gain in altruism and culture. 

People ask me all the time why I moved to Italy and now I tell them I moved for love but stayed for the tagliatelle.  If you have ever dreamed of living in this country, I could not encourage you more to do it. Or at least for a bit. Whether for the love of food or art or lifestyle, Italians will teach you how to live simply but with passion. And you will no doubt emerge a better human having spent your time in their company, with those who through and through really do do it better. 

I have taken the initiative to procure a brief cheat sheet to your transition in the event you decide to pack up and go: 

1. The bureaucracy and general life maintenance procedures are riddled with kafkaesque catch 22's. Most people think there are no rules in italy, that anything goes, but this couldn't be further from the truth. There are instead so many rules and regulations (many of which are laughably draconian) that they actually compete with each other, forcing you to break one just so you can adhere to another. Cheating and cutting corners is basically built into your survival code. 

2. Do not order a cappuccino after 11am. This is social suicide. 

3. Forget about paying for things with your credit card. You need cash. And you need exact change. Tellers, cashiers, and store clerks will deliberately and audibly sigh of exhaustion and scorn you if you are not prepared with the precise amount of coins. 

4. 15 minutes late is officially still considered on time. This is not a joke. In universities it is called a "15 minute academic delay" and you are still within your rights whether you are a student or professor. 

5. There is no snacking so stop randomly eating and do not dream about eating on a public train or bus.

6. Lunchtime is at 1pm. You stop what you do and you go there. And by there, I mean some designated place devoted specifically to dining. There is no chow permitted at your desk. And if you are eating at home YOU MUST SET THE TABLE.

7. There is no life before 7am. so plan your gym session for after work. 

8. If shit appears to be hitting the fan, everyone will panic and complain for a few hours/days/weeks, and then spontaneously all will be magically resolved because someone important somewhere made a phone call. Go ahead and join the catastrophe club but remember it ALWAYS works out even where the possibility seems impossible. 

9. Do not wear open toed shoes until sandal season. It doesn't matter how hot it is. Ladies, that means May. Gentleman, you wear socks with your dress shoes until late June and there is no exception unless you're ok appearing really smug.

10. When driving your car, do not make the mistake of parking in front of a driveway or inside the lines deemed for residents or on the curb on a night when there is street sweeping. Simply park your car on the sidewalk and all is good. 

11. People still smoke. Get over it. You may actually start yourself and LIKE IT. 

12. When your gym says it closes at 10pm it actually means 9:30pm. 10pm is when the employees get to go home and now they need to spray off your elliptical. 

13. There is no fettuccine alfredo, garlic bread, or spaghetti with meatballs. This was all a hoax. Also, there is no salt in the bread in Tuscany so stay away from it, not worth it. 

14. Nobody here appreciates a snitch. Ever. So mind your business and keep your mouth shut.

15. If you forget your wallet, come back and pay later. It's never a problem.

Italy, you have been a dream, and while my heart breaks to leave you behind, the fact that there are seemingly more Italians under the Queen Mother mends my achy heart. And besides, now that I'm in your system, we will always be tied by that inescapable bureaucracy. 

Arrivederci ai miei amici piu cari, vi porto sempre con me. 

CIAONE! 

| intrōˈspekt |

I have felt quite introspective of late, both for what regards my political microcosm as well as the global state of affairs.

But it requires almost no time spent gazing at my navel to notice that the only hope i have for claiming balance in my life is by summing the parts of my totally polarized states of existence and then dividing by two: either too lazy to put on pants, or out running a marathon. eating spinach and lentils with a silver spoon or tearing into a pannetone with a claw like fist of passion. sequencing genomes or riding the metro in the opposite direction of my final destination.

I have been particularly confronted by my laziness these days. a couple weeks ago i broke the handle on the bathroom sink and immediately resigned myself to washing my face and brushing my teeth in the bidet. I'm really not an elitist when it comes to my water sources but there IS notably another bathroom just down the hall (too far) that wouldn't require me to stare into the eyes of the faucet that was intended for my ass. Actually it was during one of these moments of self imposed humiliation that it occurred to me i might consider the possibility of hiring a life coach; begging the question: at what point does one accept it's time for an intervention?

i guess a lot has happened in the world and also my private life since i last wrote. America is about to inaugurate a living meme for a President.  As a consequence, the Italians seem to enjoy rubbing their superiority in my face, highlighting the fact that there exists a nation worse than that which willfully placed Berlusconi in power (to which I respectfully riposte that their citizens are still those who are so unaccustomed to things going as planned that they rejoice/clap when the airplane lands.)

the whole affair reminds me of other things that funnel me into a vortex of despair, things like having my ankle sock fall down around my heel but being too imprisoned by circumstance to have the leisure of reaching down to pull it back up. Or the righteous attitude of the milanese with their pets in public. a couple days ago I encountered two older ladies engaged in a heroic battle of justice in a congested women's clothing store in Milan. It was immediately obvious in this case where I would land my metaphorical gavel on the table of jurisprudence. One of the two had allowed her tiny dog to take a shit on the floor and then tap dance in it, eventually leaving a trail of tiny shitty paw prints between the jewelry section and the exit. Not only that, but the dog owner was completely unapologetic and even defended her agnostic point of view claiming that she did not have control over her pet's continence. While this may be a very logical point, it doesn't take a particularly decent or educated individual to comply with the unspoken guideline that if you can't go out in public without leaving trails of excrement on the floor, you're better off staying at home. Perhaps in this sense I'm a bit old school. Anyway, lock them all up.

In other news, I recently returned from England where I was given the unlikely opportunity of interviewing for a clinical position at one of the most prestigious universities in the world (*horn toots*). All was set to go as planned, but in the face of all those skeptical eyebrows, I'm pretty sure I killed 2 out of my 3 hypothetical patients. No rejoice/airplane clap for this girl. I was evidently so stressed out that even my nasal herpes resurrected itself, effectively gluing my right nostril shut. And then I vomited, obviously not on the floor or to the tune of Justin Bieber, but still. The debacle served as another reminder of how unprepared people sometimes get elected to power while prepared people sometimes miss the mark. We are all born inanimate blobs of flesh. Brilliance is cultivated. You only get smart by constantly surrounding yourself with people who are in your mind brighter, stronger, more talented, more laden with character, and generally more successful than yourself. That's how you grow. But growth comes at a high price- a lifetime dedicated to humility, of being tirelessly committed to feelings of inadequacy. And perhaps it is only when we are confronted with the prospect of death that we are finally able to appreciate our conquests, our faculties. 

But I'll tell you, introspection seldom does much good and we're all better off just thinking like biological creatures about how to get our next meal. But if you must, may I recommend an even faster, more modern, and less risky approach to gaining insight into yourself, achieved by simply looking at your frequently used smartphone emoticons. Mine tells me I live in a perpetual state of cheekiness, reality, and irony:

 

Cheeky: Eye roll, myopic guilty as charged toothy smile, monkey who just stole your french fry

Reality: Dog, shit (see above), grimacing face, apathetic face, question mark (seriously though, WTF?!), turkey, embarrassed and exophthalmic

Irony: Moneybags, cool guy, bride (because the last gentleman to invite me to dinner was 24), round of applause (because I deserve more like a pat on the head), TOP (BOTTOM).

For what regards the jack-o-lantern and crocodile, I really have no words. 

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go pull up my socks.