Not Funny Yet

My first favorite book was Go Dogs, Go: An absolute feat of literary genius. A triumph. Between its orange bindings twisted a plot paramount to any Alexandre Dumas, poetic styling not unlike that of the masters Donne, Hopkins, and Wordsworth, the human awareness of Jane Austen and humorous satire to rival that of William Shakespeare. You can imagine my horror then upon one day finding this prestigious classic besmirched with the graffitious pen of my toddler sister. I calmly and matter-of-factly informed my mother of these crimes, as I was not the sort of child to explode with overly dramatic storms of emotion. Obviously a characteristic still maintained to this day. I also reminded my mother that I never displayed such behavior when I was at so chubby and slobbery an age. She attempted to ease my suffering with a phrase I would come to hear often and know well... “Some day we will look back at this and laugh”. I found this lack of punishment and justice frustratingly insufficient. However, as predicted, I did eventually look back and laugh, even if with the occasional shadow of a sigh. The masochistically ironic rub is that indeed we often do look back and laugh at these pain-filled moments of grief and trauma. And while laughter may in fact be the best medicine, I find it a rather insulting remedy in the midst of heartache.

So I find myself again in a less than desirable position that will probably be funny at some future date. It may even be funny to those removed from the situation now. Feel free to laugh at the following. I live in Anaheim California. I work as a custodian at Disneyland. I scrap gum off of things with a metal stick. I clean up after a code v, a code u, and a code h… I’ll let you guess at what those could stand for. I live in a little room with two other girls. I sleep on the top of a bunk bed. I have three drawers. My roommate hacks her lungs out all night. I rode a city bus for the first time. I haven’t been on the city bus a second time. I wear white pants at my belly button with a white shirt tucked into them and a maroon belt. These pants would be considered by the world to be extremely short/high-waters, but Disney is convinced that above your sock is an appropriate length for pants. There are 20 people in my singles branch. Actually, there are only 18. 16. The number dwindles as I type. I ran by a foul-mouthed lady arguing loudly with her hairbrush in the middle of the sidewalk. I run by much scarier things that I will not list. I don’t get to see my sister, nieces, friends, or any of you other goons (a.k.a. family). I pray everyday that I will still be the favorite aunt when I get home. The one day I went to Disneyland with my roommates to play, I got a migraine. I only eat cold cereal… okay, not much has changed there.

One day I hope to be able to look back at all of this and laugh.

It isn’t funny yet.

Okay, okay, the pants are a little funny.