Why am I here?

I don’t mean that in a wake-up-half-drunk-next-to-a-stranger kind of way, either. Although, fumbling clumsily for your shoes under the bed while wadding your balled up underwear into your coat pocket as you search frantically for your keys as quietly as possible so as not to disturb the unidentified naked, tattooed human snoring obliviously on as you desperately mouth a typical refrain of the Morning After Prayer: “Please God, if you let my car be outside and help me find my way home I’LL NEVER DRINK AGAIN,” is a great time to ask that question, too.

I mean it on a deeper existential level. (“Existential,” for those of you, like me, who do not know what that word means unless you crack open your Random House and find it alphabetically in the ‘E’s’, means “Of, pertaining to, or characteristic of existentialism.” So. Phew. Glad to have cleared that up for you. (Don’t you just fucking hate definitions like that? I mean, what a goddamn waste of all of our time. (Which reminds me of an experience I had in elementary school. I must have been in second grade which, I think, made me eight. (Or four, if I was Doogie Howser. (I wasn’t.)) While writing a paper I asked my father, “How do you spell ‘disease’?” I knew it started with a ‘d,’ but I wasn’t sure if it was desease, decease or the much more correct disease. So, like any child in distress, (or ‘destress,’ if you’re eight), I asked my father. And you know what he told me? “Look it up.” It was at that moment that I began to despise, (dispise), the dictionary. Because looking through all the words that start with “de” and all the words that start with “di” in the Merriam Webster that we had back in the day, (It was the HEFTY dictionary! The kind in which the letters of the alphabet were segmented by the gold-leaf thumb tabs in an effort to reduce your search time through that Guttenberg-esque-sized tome. (What I mean by that, boys and girls, is that our dictionary when I was a child was as large as one of the original Guttenberg Bibles, printed in the 1500s by Steve Guttenberg. (Just kidding. Steven Guttenberg was the star of such hits in the 1980’s as “Police Academy,” “Cocoon,” and “Three Men and a Baby.” I’m referring to the man who invented the printing press. (The more I think about it, I think the man who invented the printing press spelled his name “Gutenberg.” I should look that up. (Yep. It’s Gutenberg. Johannes Gutenberg. And since he died in 1468, I am going to go out on a limb and surmise that he invented the printing press a litte bit before 1500. (Gutenberg Bible, n, an edition of the Vulgate (I am NOT looking up “Vulgate” for anyone, but based on my extensive education in word etymology, I assume that it has something to do with a vagina) printed at Mainz before 1456, ascribed to Gutenberg and others: probably the first large book printed with movable type.)))))), not out of curiousity but because your sadistic father wants to HELP YOU LEARN not by providing you with an answer but by forcing you to wade through the entirety of the English language to figure out how to spell ONE WORD out of literally dozens and dozens that you had to write for your paper on insects. (ensects.) It is a book of DEFINITIONS, Father, not a SPELLING book! (In retrospect, it is possible that my father was illiterate and his refusal to help me spell “disease” was all part of an elaborate (ilaborate) plan of his to hide his inability to read, a plan that involved surrounding himself with Will & Ariel Durant history books, encyclopedias, and dictionaries, and then telling all of his children to go “look it up” whenever they had a question about anything.) In short, existentialism is “a philosophical movement, esp. of the 20th century, that stresses the individual’s position as a self-determining agent responsible for his or her own choices.”)))

I don’t want to list all my faults, because this is a blog and not my Morning Mantra, (“Good morning, Laurie, you worthless piece of shit. Try not to do anything stupid today, make any irretrievable mistakes or unduly piss anyone off. And stop stalking Rosanne Cash on Twitter. I’m pretty sure she’s sick of it.”) (I generally fail at abiding by that mantra by my first tweet, which tends to shatter all four points in one fell swoop.), but I don’t possess a lot of the things that I imagine a grounded, normal person would have. I am not especially close to my family. I don’t have any children or a significant other. Hell, I don’t even have an insignificant other. I don’t volunteer with any charities. And, not only do I not belong to a church, I don’t even believe in the endogenous spiritually that emanates from within them.

Editor’s note: Okay. Let’s all just take a step back here. Laurie, go get a cup of coffee and let the adults talk. Thank you all that are struggling to read this. If it makes you feel any better I am, too. I am a horrible editor. I am unable to focus, have a very weak educational background, and I am drunk. So very, very drunk. I may have to resign, post my resume on LinkdIn and get a job working for Yahoo!News. That being said, I do know that I haven’t made this essay easy for you, so I greatly appreciate the time and effort you have spent here today trying to understand it. I know that you have better things to do. (I just heard someone’s laundry timer go off. It’s best to get those clothes out of the dryer while they’re still warm. Fewer wrinkles to iron out.) I want to apologize for Laurie’s frantic abuse of parenthetical phrases and sentence structure, not to mention her gratuitous overuse of ginormous words. She means well. I think tonight she is trying to be the Theonious Monk of essayists. And, just like that famous jazz musician when he sat down in front of a piano, she is mangling the shit out this essay while imagining that it is dripping off of her fingers like honey. A couple of hours ago she was speaking like a normal person. But, now that she’s opened the dictionary to the ‘E’s’, she needs to embellish her eloquence with elongated enunciation. GODDAMMIT THAT’S IT, I’M SHUTTING THE DICTIONARY.

Ah, that’s good coffee!

So, my point being, I imagine that there are dozens of things (or pills) that people do (or pop) each day to keep from mentally spinning straight off this big blue marble into the infinite chasm of space. They focus on their children, for one. After all, when you’re choking over noxious diapers or worried whether or not your teenager has discovered what “sexting” is and, if so, if they will teach you how to do it, do you really have all that much time to sit around wondering why you’re here? The answer is in their expectant, upturned faces as you regurgitate food into their gullets. (Since I have no children of my own, it is possible that I am confusing the feeding habits of human offspring with that of the red-breasted robin. But, I think those of you with children get what I’m trying to say.)

Editor’s note: Just nod your heads yes.

I think it’s easy to get spooked by the enormity of the universe, by the breadth of history as it rolls over us from our ancestors’ time like an infinite tsunami that will never reach the shore. And it is extremely easy to breathe in that icy cold hiccup of anxiety-riddled truth, even if you have children: In the grand scheme of things, I really don’t matter.

So, maybe the best thing to do, when it occurs to you that you’re neither finding the cure for cancer or solving the world’s financial crisis nor are you writing the perfect song which seven billion people will love and sing in unison in perfect harmony, which causes the world to vibrate at a higher frequency which, in turn, magically dissipates all the excess carbon dioxide stored up CO2 in our atmosphere, resulting in you being the first singer/songwriter to simultaneously win the Nobel Peace Prize AND the Nobel Prize for Chemistry for having solved Global Climate Change, (while receiving the Grammy for Record of the Year. But, interestingly enough, not Song of the Year. Go figure. The Grammys are fucking weird like that.), maybe the best thing to do when that frightening realization hits you is to just take a deep breath and exhale.

Sometimes, all we can do is keep our head down, take little steps, and stop jumping against the screendoor of life like an anxiety-riddled Jack Terrier. Sometimes, we have to admit that, no matter how much money we have or how comfortable we are with the size and girth of our penis, someone is going to say something that makes us feel insignificant and small. (Obviously, I’m speaking for the men in the house there. And some of the ladies.) Sometimes, all we can do is admit that we can’t prevent stupid things from happening just because we scream and yell at the stupid people to stop doing stupid things with their stupid faces. Sometimes, we have to admit that, sometimes, that smile you shared with the cashier at the grocery store is going to be the best thing about an otherwise shitty day. Sometimes, talking about that crazy woman who eats toilet paper on that one tv show with the one co-worker with bad skin and a lazy eye who also just happens to be racist to the core is the best conversation you’re going to have all day. And sometimes we don’t even get that. Sometimes, we have to go on living even after we find out we’ve been betrayed, or disrespected, or treated unjustly, or we’ve been shattered emotionally.  And it’s a life filled with uncertainty and violence and cruelty and selfishness and pain. And it’s hard to find a purpose in life when everything sucks and there’s nothing good at the movies and Modern Family is in reruns.

And that’s when you take a deep breath and exhale. And it suddenly occurs to you that finding your center in the middle of THAT is your purpose in life. Everything else is garnish.

Until you wake up half-drunk next to someone who’s name might be…? Kelsey? Kelly? At that point, feel free to ask, “Why the hell am I here?”

And really mean it this time.

I’d like to think that being molested as a child led to my robust sense of humor, but that is probably more attributable to the fact that I read a lot of Erma Bombeck as a kid. She was the one, after all, who asked, “If Life Is a Bowl of Cherries, What Am I Doing In The Pits?” And an 11-year-old victim of child abuse can certainly relate to that kind of existential angst.

Editor’s note: Laurie has NO idea what the phrase “existential angst” really means. She really doesn’t. It just sounded good to her. I’m not kidding.

This autobiographical blogpost is being written to offer up a little bit of insight about me, the author, as I’m sure that, now that you’ve read more than one of my weekly essays, you’re starting to feel a burgeoning sexual attraction towards me. With the heat of my intellect and hilarity of my wit searing your computer monitor, I can’t say I didn’t see this coming. And since the passionate crush you are feeling is so powerful and strong, I want to reveal some unknown details about myself to you, if only to help you avoid sobbing in frustration once again at my unattainability after you experience yet another unsatisfactory, unfulfilling orgasm while masturbating furiously in the bath to the thought of me.

I was adopted at six weeks, a child of divorce by age two, and being told to stroke a man’s penis by age four. That year I also suffered a serious accident that broke my collarbone and crushed my skull, requiring that a steel plate be implanted in my head, which I have to this day. (And by that I mean the steel plate. I lost my head some time ago.)

In retrospect, the subsequent 37 years have been quite tame in comparison. Well. Except maybe for the raping, which occurred from ages 5-10.

I’ve been fortunate in my life. I haven’t suffered starvation in a ghetto or been brutally gang-raped. (In case you’re curious, I have also never been gently gang-raped. Although, as I just mentioned, I have been raped.) I have never watched a family member overdose on drugs, and I’ve never had to kill anyone. (“Never HAD to” being the operative term. Any murders I have committed have been gleefully voluntary. Editor’s note: Laurie is merely having “fun” with the English language. So just back the fuck up, FBI electronic monitoring device.) All in all, except for that whole, you know, childhood phase, my life has been relatively trauma-free.

I can’t speak for everyone who has had their hymen or anus ripped at age five because of the adult-sized penis that was inserted into that particular orifice, (I can almost hear you now: “And THAT’S when I stopped masturbating to images of Laurie, Doctor.”), but I’m more than willing to tell you what it did to me. Since I was lured into sexual congress at the age of four with gifts of candy cigarettes by a friend of the family that everyone thought very highly of, I subsequently spent most of my life extremely suspicious and distrustful of anyone who ever attempted to do anything nice for me, regardless of how trustworthy they claimed to be. (I also developed a hatred of candy cigarettes, but that hardly seems as important now.) Since all I wanted was to be left alone, as a teenager, (and into my adult years), I was repulsed by anyone who was interested in me sexually. (That probably also explains why I have generally only been attracted to people who want nothing to do with me. They are so much safer than the lecherous predators I’ve been all too familiar with.) Since I grew up in a home in which serious psychological problems such as my molestation or my step-father’s Vietnam-war induced PTSD were never discussed, I developed the ability to survive without healing. Since I did not have a stable, secure family life in which to develop roots and self-confidence, I never became confident enough to develop lasting, sincere friendships. And, since all of this abuse happened to me before I had any inkling of what the world outside my home was like, I thought something was wrong with me before I even knew what having something wrong with me meant. (I was raised in a home that thrived on self-reliance and stoicism. If you weren’t tough enough to knuckle down and get the job done, regardless of how hard things were, then you were a disappointing weakling.)

Needless to say, armed with all those tremendous life skills and lessons, by age 18 I suffered my first nervous breakdown. And as my life progressed through my twenties, I was heading down the classic, self-destructive path taken by so many dysfunctional children before me. Horrible relationships, depression, booze. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Luckily, a well-placed friend here or there along the way has helped raise me out of the gutter in which I found myself being pissed upon. Instead of being haunted for the rest of my life by the turbulent ghosts of my childhood, I have been able to see that there is more to life than just painful memories. I could try to go into detail about how that happened, but this essay is long enough as it is. Just suffice it to say that I did it. Without Oprah and without the Lord, as if those two things are mutually exclusive.

I know I’m not the coolest kid on the block. I know I’m not the most secure. I certainly don’t have the best career path mapped out. And I am absolutely horrible when it comes to developing long-term romantic relationships. I’ll be alone, with my cats, for the rest of my life. I’ll be lucky to hold onto my house. Even though I type things on a computer and upload them onto the internet, that in no way makes me exceptional or expert about anything. I realize that I am merely a product of my environment here in America and if I were the daughter of a goat-herder in Azerbaijan, I would see the world differently from how I do now. Nevertheless, even though I’m limited in my thinking by the society I am a part of, I still feel like an individual, and I am terrified of group-think. I am, not, in other words, perfect. More like “perfucked.”

I didn’t share these details of my life with you tonight in order that you could admire me or say “You’re so courageous and strong.” I’m simply lucky. Lucky that I didn’t drink so much alchohol or take so many drugs in my years of struggle that my brain turned to swiss cheese. Lucky that I was able to walk away from negative influences when I heard the instincts in my head say, “This dysfunctional relationship is harmful to you.” Lucky that I found at least one or two truly loving friends to help me realize that not everyone on the planet is a douchebag.

I wanted to share all of this with you to help you see that I know what it is like to be an outsider. I know what injustice feels like, and what it feels like to be tense and angry towards the entire world. I know how it feels to be shuttered and silent, incapable of expressing an emotion or an opinion. I know what it feels like to be terrified of being someone’s victim again. I know what it feels like to hold onto bad habits and dysfunctional friendships simply because I don’t have any self-worth.

Obstacles CAN be overcome. Nightmares CAN dissipate, and you CAN grow more confident about yourself. (Assuming, of course, that you are not Donald Trump who, as we all know, is already bursting with so much confidence that it is physically impossible for him to gain more confidence without exploding.) I mean, maybe you feel fine about yourself and you don’t need any pep talks, certainly not one from some strange cat lady on the internet. Which is fine. I’m not really about giving pep talks, anyway.

That being said, if you have despaired, and if you have wondered if there is ever a light at the end of your tunnel, maybe you’ll gain ever so slight comfort knowing that at least one person found it. And if one person can find it, then maybe two can. And then we can-can-can.

Editor’s note: At this point in the blog, please don your hemp skirts, braid your hair with daisies, light incense and dance in a circle, holding hands while singing “Age of Aquarius.” Now grab a hand-held mirror and explore your own vagina. Thank you.

I hope I don’t sound self-righteous or unctuously redeemed by reliving some of the highlights of my childhood with you. Because, God, do I hate assholes like that! But, as I write about social issues and injustice and various outrageous things that make a person say, “Can you believe this bullshit?”, I hope this helps you understand a little bit of my motivation. I mean, basically, all I’m trying to say is that bullies suck.

Of course, I could have said that about a thousand words ago, and I could have just texted it to you instead of writing this huge fucking essay. But, I had to write something.

I had to give you something to masturbate to this week.

A co-worker of mine told me that she had to write 1,000 word paper about a movie that she watched for a sociology class. This stunned me. Perhaps if you knew the facts of the case, it would stun you as well. She is a working mother with four children. She spends forty hours a week at her office job, and is taking classes at night from the University of Phoenix to get her associates degree in business. She is not, I repeat, NOT attempting to obtain a sociology degree which, in my opinion is the only degree you should be attempting to receive if your sociology “professor” insists that you write a thousand word essay on a movie. Movie critics at the New York Times write about movies all the time, and even though that’s what they get paid to do!, most are probably no more than 800 words, if that. A thousand words. To write about a movie. The script probably had less than a 1,000 words of dialogue in it. I’ve been stuffing this paragraph with more filler than Taco Bell’s seasoned meat, and I’m only up to 176 words. I don’t know how she did it, how long it took, or what grade she ended up getting on it. All I know is that the task itself seemed to righteously suck. What made it worse was that she didn’t even like the movie. She’s just a playa looking to get paid by slogging through night school, and instead she got stuck writing one long-winded paper about some stupid topic that she doesn’t care anything about, knows next to nothing about, and that isn’t in any way going to help her become a better supervisor. Ain’t that some shit?

Fast forward to today.

I have a couple of friends that insist that I start a blog. Misguided, gentle souls that they are, they seem to be convinced that writing a blog is right up my alley. It’s funny, because I see their insistence that I create a blog along the same lines as a woman who knits Christmas sweaters for herself (and her cats) views her friends who frequently suggest that she go on a coffee date with Delores from accounting, because once you get past her tangy, acrid body odor she’s a really nice lady, you’ll see. At first you sigh and politely decline. And then you just sigh and shake your head once while stifling a scream through a compressed, toothless smile. And then you meet Delores for coffee because you realize that they are never going to shut up about it. Ever.

So.

I am going on this metaphorical coffee date.

I’m going to establish a few ground rules and see what happens.

1. I will try to write about one topic, once a week.

2. No topic is off-limits.

3. In honor of the painful writing assignment that my co-worker had to endure, I will try to make each essay about a 1,000 words long.

4. I’m up to 500 words. Fuck.

I have never created a blog before, so I have no idea what I am doing. I don’t know how to insert pictures or links or Death Cab for Cutie songs. I’m a Luddite when it comes to that sort of thing. (A “Luddite,” for those of you who don’t know is a person who reads Robert Ludlum books, but not on a Kindle or anything electronic like that.)

When creating a blog, it is important to come up with a catchy name for it. I’m all about honesty, so my first instinct was to call it the “Super Hot Fun Sex Kitten’s Guide to Life, Love & the World of Warcraft,” but I probably won’t talk about World of Warcraft all that much. Since I am surprisingly obsessed about the 1,000 Word Rule, I thought about calling it “MilliWord,” which not only conveys the size limit that I am so focused on, but also indicates that I am willing to embrace the metric system. This would make me appear to be exotic and European and kickass, like Milla Jovovich. Unfortunately, I could repeat the phrase “MilliWord” in my head a milli times and it would still sound stupid.

Since one of the friends who insisted I write has the last name of Hayes, I considered “The Hayse-y Days of Summer” in tribute. But, I quickly tossed that idea aside, as my OTHER friend would be furious, as she has been urging me to write this blog much longer than Ms. Hayes has even known me, and I just could not deal with the jealousy, although that WOULD make an awesome plot to center an episode of “The Hills” around. HER last name is Pugh, so I thought “Hey, Don’t Pugh Pugh the Hayse-y Days of Summer Idea” would be a great compromise, but it just seemed a little wordy. Plus, I don’t really think it is a good idea for my blog to be directed solely towards them, although without their ridiculously insane levels of encouragement/ruthless obsessive stalking, you would not see the words that you see before you today. I mean, there are plenty of valid reasons not to directly reference them in the title. For one, they probably stopped reading paragraphs ago, as they have attention spans of chipmunks and b)when I want to write to them I will send them a text message, like a normal person.

“Please. Hold Your Applause ‘Til The End” sounded remarkably narcissistic and obnoxious so, naturally, I was immediately drawn to it. But the more I thought about it, the more nuanced it sounded. ‘Til the end of what, exactly? No, really, don’t applaud. Or, maybe, yes, you should?…because can’t we all just take a moment to celebrate the fact that I actually took the first step towards doing this thing, whatever this is.

It’s obnoxious at first glance and incredibly self-absorbed. But, the more you look at it, the more layered and subtle it actually becomes. Kinda like…me.

One thousand words. Awesome.