Sometimes there are periods of such sorrow, such unexpected trauma and the wind being knocked from everyone’s sails that I begin to suspect some sort of malignant cosmic conspiracy. Somewhere, Vishnu, Jesus and Hecate are in the midst of a bloody coke hangover, fighting over the last aspirin in the bottle and stringing us all up by the short hairs just for the malicious glee of it.
Left to its own devices, the universe can be crap, I tell you; if you’ve ever lost someone to a drunk driver on an otherwise benign Wednesday evening, you know what I’m talking about. Some examples: A dear, dear friend is battling alcohol addiction; a single parent, she supports herself and her kid by working for a rather popular brewery. Another is recovering from a botched spinal tap; feeling odd and feverish, she went to the ER where they thought it was meningitis. They poked her and now she’s busy recuperating flat on her back and permanently out of the show she just opened. (Turns out it was a bladder infection, by the way. Yeah, ha-ha.) A different friend is trying not to fall back into her drug-bingeing habits as she weathers a separation from her husband, who spent their last, miserable days together playing his electric guitar at top volume all night so as to keep her awake. One after another, the horror stories keep rolling in. Betrayals, breakups, illnesses, lay-offs. No death, knock wood, but absolutely everything else.
Is it astrological? Meteorological? Something in the water, or coming through the ventilation system? Or is it pure, and therefore insignificant, coincidence? Perception is such a mutable, stupid thing; it very well could be my own filter on the world, currently set to “Bleak.” Divorce will do that to you, I suppose. Yes, I said it, divorce. Don’t ask—it’s all so stereotypically banal as to be almost boring. We all knew it was coming; didn’t I tell you months ago that marriage is comprised solely of “fear and loathing—half of the time you loathe them and the other half you fear they’re going to leave”? That couldn’t have boded well for the whole shebang, as far as boding goes.
So maybe it is just me. However, if it’s you, too, sugar, let me tell you our plan. First, you and I will hang in there, just like the widdle kitty perpetually clinging to the tree branch on that inspirational and deeply moving poster. This may take considerable effort but I’ve heard that it’s worth it. After an indefinite amount of time spent hanging in there—meaning waking up every goddamn morning, dressing, working, not burning any bridges through depressive recklessness and remembering always to brush and floss, a shift will occur. Small, sweet things will start to register on the periphery, things like how good touch feels on the skin, wind blowing through tall firs, favorite songs we’d forgotten how to hear. Slowly, the good parts of this life will show themselves again.
The final phase of our plan is comprised of our individual methods for Taking Over The World; mine involves building a tree house next door to my parents and dividing my time between volunteering for noble causes, having mind-blowing sex with brilliant hotties and writing novel after novel while drinking really good red wine. Yours?
populargirls@tabletmag.com
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