If you’re anything like me, (Lord help us all if you are. It has taken me six seven! minutes to create this one sentence, so if we’re similar, no wonder nothing ever gets done around here), then you experience a thousand dissimilar, random thoughts and emotions a day. And, if you’re also like me and have a Twitter account and possess very little amazing impulse control, you at least have a place to type those weird teeny, tiny little thoughts so they vent harmlessly into cyberspace instead of building up behind your eyeballs to dangerously high levels until the pressure becomes so great that spinal fluid starts seeping out of your ears. (And I don’t even know if spinal fluid CAN start seeping out of your ears. I mean, it certainly doesn’t sound like it could, as your ears don’t seem to be connected at all to your spine, not even in the wildest way that I try to imagine what the inner-workings of my skull look like, which is with tubes and stuff like the evil genius from Terry Gilliam’s Time Bandits. But the cranium is a very complex cavity and who really knows what goes on in there? I mean, I’m sure I could Google it to find out. I could just type in “spinal fluid leakage” and see what pops up. But, of course, I won’t because I have very little amazing impulse control.)

**Five minutes later**

Okay, holy crap, it CAN come out your ears. I had no idea! I thought it just dribbled down your spine like slimy water on a steamy metallic wall in that primordial egg-laying scene in Aliens. (Which I am not going to bother linking to, as you have all seen that movie a gazAlien (!) times and know exactly the visual that I am trying to express. Although, can I just say? My over-use of links is making me suspect that I am not writing so much as I am creating a web-based pop-up book. But, pardon me–I need to go back to writing my blog now.) Of course, I should probably spend another good six seven! minutes trying to rephrase the expression “can come out your ears,” as that is leading to a desire to google something else entirely, and we certainly don’t need me linking to THAT. (Shush, boys. NO. WE. DON’T.) So I won’t. Because I have amazing impulse control.

This is probably the point in the essay where you, my Intelligent Reader, has deduced that tonight’s topic is about Twitter and/or impulse control. And that is where you would be Wrong.

Now, just for the sake of argument we are all going to agree, (Logical Reader: “But how can it be ‘for the sake of argument’ if we all agree with you, Laurie?” Slightly-caffeinated, determined-to-stay focused blogwriter: “Shut up.”), to my original point that we all have a thousand random thoughts a day. I realize that this is not a scientific statement. I realize that some people do not flit in unfocused fashion from thought to hyper-active thought like a Vietnam POW camp surviving hummingbird on ecstasy. (Those composed people? Those who can speak in complete paragraphs and can leave the radio in the car on one station EVEN WHEN A COMMERCIAL COMES ON? Those people I fondly refer to as freaks.) The main point is that, whether we wash dishes for a living, are chefs or even brain surgeons, on some day in our life, whether we are elbow-deep in soap suds or reading Kierkegaard, at some point we are eventually going to wonder, “Who DID put the bomp in the bomp bah bomp bah bomp?” It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that George W. Bush, for example, was struck by that thought ALL THE TIME. And he was PRESIDENT. Here’s an example of him being struck by it. Or so I imagine.

Of course, sometimes the thoughts that dance around in our noodle are not as serious as, “Who put the ram in the rama lama ding dong?” Sometimes they are lighter, superficial thoughts like, “Why am I upset that a man I’ve never met decided to use Twitter to post words of encouragement and hope to depressed people on the anniversary of his brother’s suicide?” “Why does it bother me that such a trivial medium was used by someone to speak to people with serious problems?” “Who am I to judge, no matter how serious or deadly the subject may be?” Or, (and this is maybe a little bit less specific to, like, one imaginary person’s head), “Holy God. I am the worst mother on the planet.”

Heck, I’m sure that, even when hipsters order coffee-like things at Starbucks, seemingly without a care in their TV-On-The-Radio-loving, cinnamon-sprinkled, cappuccino-soaked heads, they are randomly struck by the thought, “Fuck. I’m going to die.” (And that’s even in the Starbucks that AREN’T by robbed!)

The truly weird thing about these thoughts, the thing that makes them truly unnerving and life-debilitating, is that you can’t just turn to the person next to you on the bus and say, “You know–Hi! Strangest thing: I just thought about drowning my husband in the tub if he has one more goddamn cigarette behind my back. And it FELT LIKE THE RIGHT THING TO DO. Oh! Here’s my stop. Bye!”

Most all of us have negative thoughts. I mean, not me, of course. I am perpetually sunny. Aside from that first thought of the day which is, typically, “Where am I, where are my panties and why does my ass feel like that?”, once I find my underwear I am nothing but Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm until my head hits the a pillow at night. By writing this supportive essay I am simply trying to empathize with my audience. I learned about doing that in that writing class I took from Bill Clinton.

Again, I would like to admit, for the record, that there are some people out there who are GENUINELY even-keeled, who never experience even a flicker of frustration, fear, self-loathing or doubt. WE HATE THEM. They should swim the ocean currents, help Dory Find Nemo, and leave the job of being a suffering, miserable piece of humanity to the rest of us. I’m not worried about them, as they are nowhere near an internet connection. Much like Ed Begley Jr.’s character on The Simpsons, they are busy powering their cars with their own sense of self-satisfaction. They are planting trees on Mt. Everest for orphans while developing a cure for rickets. WE HATE THEM.

So, how do we survive these fears and insecurities? We wake up. Walk the dog. Pee on the cat. (You know who you are.) Focus diligently on our jobs, our children, our hobbies. We answer e-mail after e-mail after e-mail. We text. We tweet. We plan supper. We tweet about what we’re making for supper. (No. Really. WE DO THAT.) We pick up the dry cleaning. We stay as busy as we can so that the stress build-up from those random, inescapable thoughts doesn’t lead us screaming straight into an oncoming bus. (Or a train, if you’re in Nebraska. But, wait. Who am I kidding? No one in Nebraska is reading this. Nebraska doesn’t have internet access.*) Like Dory, we just keep swimming. (But, that is where the similarity to Dory should end, as Dory had the memory of a rutabaga. Which is not to say that she had loving memories of rutabagas, but that her mind was about as developed as a root vegetable and not designed to sustain a cohesive thought for an extended period of time. But, listen, this is no time to discover the universal taoist principles covered in a Pixar film. I have to talk about anger and nasty stuff like that.) (And, hey, psst, listen. I have no idea if there are taoist principles in ‘Finding Nemo.’ I really don’t. I mean, there probably are–you know how those hippies in Hollywood like to indoctrinate your children and turn ’em gay and all that shit. And there’s nothing gayer than “taoism,” am I right? I mean, c’mon. The first letter is a ‘T.’ So why do they pronounce it with a ‘D’? Because it’s DUMB, that’s right.)

So many conflicts lie unresolved in your head. And they become suppurating blisters in your brain that you can never confront. “That job man woman I work sleep flirt sing pray live with drives me absolutely fucking insane and if I had the power to leave, I would. But I can’t. I just have to sit here and take it. Because I am supposed to suffer support endure.” You get angry or feel belittled or disrespected. And your feelings are so very hurt. And you cannot turn to the person next to you and say, “Man. I really feel like I’m losing my place in the world and that I really don’t matter. And if I have to grit my teeth and smile at one more person I’m really going to lose it.” At best, if you’re lucky, you shake your head, gulp and say, “Some day, eh?” For most of us, though, all we can do is look up and say “Paper, please. No, I changed my mind. Plastic.” Because at that moment you’re all, like, “Fuck Mother Earth.” 

Now, I would like to be clear. (Annoyed Sarcastic Reader: “Really? NOW you want to be clear? Laurie. Do you actually READ your essays? Do you know how hard they are to get through? If David Foster Wallace were alive, he’d say ‘I just don’t understand this shit.'” Overly-Caffeinated, Hungry, Slightly Nauseated Blogger: “You’re hurting my feelings, making me feel inadequate and underappreciated. Also, I know for a fact that at least two of you have NO idea who David Foster Wallace even is.” Reader: “Oh shut UP!”) I am not saying that we as fallible humans are consumed by thoughts of negativity all the time. (If you are, please know that depression is a manageable disease that can be effectively treated with talk therapy and/or medication. I hope you have the courage and the strength to find someone who can help you breathe again. For me, it was a three-legged cat. But that’s another story. (See, you inconsiderate tweeting sonofabitch who shall remain nameless but oh you know who you are!? THAT’S how you talk about depression–in a fucking blog! Or maybe a magazine column, at least, I don’t know! If you’re a radio personality maybe you create a radio segment about it! I’m just spitballin’ here. What you DON’T do is type ANYTHING about SUICIDE or DEPRESSION in a fucking 140 character TWEET! Especially when you spend the rest of your time on Twitter making lame-ass jokes that are so horrible they literally make people want to kill themselves. “Hang in there, Kitten!” is NOT AN EFFECTIVE DETERRANT AGAINST DEPRESSION. Asshat.)) What I am saying is that we get pummelled by these thoughts on a fairly steady basis. They’re like solar flares headed straight for our brain. They cause us to be irritable, short, achy, a little bitchy…it wouldn’t surprise me in the least if they also caused scabies or vaginal dryness. (Motherly Reader: “You are SUCH a child, Laurie. Can’t go a paragraph without saying ‘vagina,’ can you?” Hypoglycemic Blogger: “That’s not true. It’s a real medical condition. And, anyway, if I were trying to be childish I would have called it a ‘bagina.'”) But if we don’t find a way to understand and conquer them, if we can’t learn from these thoughts, then they will become soul-crushingly heavy and destroy the simple joy that we are supposed to get out of life. And then we just end up sitting on our sofas in our Snuggies eating Doritos watching So You Think You Can Dance.**

And THAT is why it is important to infuse your life with art. (Ha! This essay is about ART. Betcha didn’t see THAT coming. Not from the woman who has framed Guiness Stout beer coasters on her wall as decoration. *And a Winnie the Pooh poster! Yes, Laurie. And a Winnie the Pooh poster, too.*) You have to read, you have to explore new ideas. You have to listen to great new music. You have to really look at that beautiful painting from that guy with the weird name that kind of makes you nervous when you see it. You have to experience the world through music, or poetry, or sculpture, or literature. It is in that space that you will find the universal language that will give you your voice. You are not abnormal or unusual for your feelings of pain and insecurity. It’s through the world of art that we learn, after all, that we all go a little bit mad sometimes. (Bonus Blog Points for those of you who know that is a famous quote from Alfred Hitchcock’s “Psycho.”) (And Bonus Bonus Blog Points for those of you who are familiar with the song I just linked under “Psycho.”) (Good God. It’s like I’m going down a psycho wormhole.)

Now, sure, certainly, of course, you can find that connection to inner peace through religion, too. Since the important thing is helping you get to the point where you don’t feel like you’re going to stroke out at the thought of having to sit through another miserable family dinner with your annoying sister-in-law who thinks she’s so high and mighty and who never burns her pot roast or misses a PTA meeting and GAHHHHH!

Since the important thing is getting you past THAT, sure, if you can find it in your church, who am I to begrudge you that one bit of solace? Of course, the solace and comfort I’m referring to is visible in the eyes of real live humans, all over the globe, regardless of their religion, and I actually think it is healthier to connect to real people through genuine emotions rather than by sharing an imaginary sense of love and well-being with an invisible space entity that doesn’t really exist except through the power of your faith…oh, sorry. No, I’m sorry. You’re right. Whatever gives you strength.***

So. You are not alone. You are not insane. (Except for you. You are batshit-eat-your-feces-insane and you need to institutionalize yourself immediately because God knows we can’t just throw you into that asylum against your will because you have a little something we like to call “civil rights.” Or as you like call them, “asparagus.”)

You are not a twit.

Hang in there, kitten.****

*This is the point in history when Laurie lost her one reader from Nebraska.

**This is the point in history when Laurie lost all of her readers in Wisconsin.

***This is the point in history when Laurie lost all of her readers in the South.

****This is the point in history when Laurie lost Laurie.