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Posts Tagged ‘brain lapses’

Things That Worry Me

Thursday, June 4th, 2009

I think, therefore I worry. I realize worrying hasn’t changed the outcomes of anything I’ve worried about nor does it serve any other purpose than to give me something to think about at three in the morning. But that doesn’t stop me. Worrying is my favorite pastime. Here are some of my latest.

Worry Number One: The World Will End. Abruptly. In a large nuclear apocalyptic mushroom cloud of doom. Like on the TV show 24. Now, I don’t worry that I’d die in this massive explosion, I worry I will survive. Here’s my worst fear: I’m wandering aimlessly through a destructive landscape of charred bodies and swirling dirt storms with only Spam to eat. Why do we save canned foods for emergencies anyway? How is this going to make you feel better if you’re the sole survivor on the planet? Not only will you be facing the death of mankind, you have to eat salty fetid meat, too? Note to self: buy more freeze-dried backpacking food. What really worries me is that Doomsday will precede the conclusion of Survivor or 24 and I’ll be wandering aimlessly through the desolate streets without knowing who won the million bucks or whom Jack had to torture to save the world.

Worry Number Two: We’ll run out of money, lose the house and be forced out onto the streets. And the food bank will give us only Spam to eat. (See Worry Number One). Even though I would no longer have to worry about property taxes, a giant mortgage, house insurance, earthquake insurance, remodeling the leaking showers, fixing the roof, propping up the sinking front porch, re-stuccoing the outside walls or replacing the forty-year-old stinky carpeting, this would—wait. Why am I worried about this again?

Worry Number Three: My career will take off after I die. The day my ashes get buried in the Pescadero Cemetery, finally, all my books will sell, I’ll get awarded a freakin’ Pulitzer and my estate will be showered with millions of dollars in cash. That would make me mad enough to rise from the grave. Why do they give Pulitzers posthumously, anyway? The person who cares the most is dead. Dead. Dead people don’t care about sales and awards, they want to be recognized in their lifetime or the achievement doesn’t count. The only people benefiting from a dead person’s success are the publishers and the dead author’s relatives, people who probably sent the person to their grave in the first place. Oh. Money. Duh. Of course. I am so naïve sometimes. I just figured this out (see Worry Number Five). They give awards to dead people to pump up their sales. Added benefit of having dead winners, competing live authors can’t bitch publicly that they were cheated without seeming like total idiots. Still, I don’t want this happening to me. I want all my accolades now. All that money now. Course, what if this is my peak? What if this is as far as my writing career goes? Which brings me to Worry Number Four.

Worry Number Four: My novels won’t sell to a big publisher. After twenty years and twenty-six unsold novels, this isn’t really a worry. This is a condition. This is a state of being. While I win contests and I get glowing rejection letters from publishers, The Big Contract still hasn’t happened for me. Yet I still work diligently forty hours a week, delusional in my optimism. I figure if I go to my grave without selling a book, at least I’ll leave behind a hundred plus unsold novels—wait. Now I’m right back to Worry Number Three…

Worry Number Five: I’m stupid. I mean, really stupid. You know that movie, Waiting for Guffman? It took me three years and four months to get that the title was a play on words of the theatrical production, Waiting For Godot. And I’m a theatre major. Who saw the play about three times. And the movie about the same number of times. Did you know that awards are given to dead authors as a marketing tool to drive sales? I could name twenty other jokes I didn’t get for a year or two and situations I didn’t understand until way after the fact. There are some synapses in my head that work at a glacial pace. Of course, at three in the morning, these lapses all add up to a case of Terminal Stupidity. Thankfully, the only person who’s around when I make these embarrassing realizations is Frank. Oh. And now you people. And I just put proof of my stupidity in writing. Doh!

Worry Number Six: They’ll Change The Formula of Cocoa Puffs. Again. I know this doesn’t really compare to the other worries, but nonetheless it is a valid concern. They’ve changed Trix and Lucky Charms and countless other childhood comfort cereals, I just got used to Cocoa Puffs again and I really like them. Which means they’ll change the formula. Like what they did to Cracker Jacks. Freakin’ criminal.

Worry Number Seven: My cat will starve if I don’t offer him wet food eight times a day. Give or take a few times. Even though I always leave a big bowl of dry food out for him and a huge bowl of fresh water, he’s old. I worry about him not eating enough. Because I am an obsessive cat parent. And he is not obese and I’ve always had obese cats… Oh. Wow. Two huge realizations in the span of one column. Which brings me back to Worry Number Five.

Worry Number Eight: The Christian Right will take over America and I will be killed to silence my big mouth. In every cultural revolution, the first people who get rounded up and executed are the intellectuals. Especially the loud females. Wait. All I have to do is to produce this column and show them Worry Number Five. Whew. Dodged that bullet.

Worry Number Nine: I spend too much time worrying about stupid crap that never comes to pass. Yeah? And your point?

©2009, Janet Periat

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