Our Stupid Bodies, Our Selves

“The Stupid Human Body”

As humans on this physical plane of existence, we come equipped with fleshy meat suits, also known as bodies. It’s sort of a requirement, a prerequisite, that we be composed of matter to, you know, be here.

It’s an unfortunate condition, if you ask me, on account of all the limitations.

Sure, it’s cool that we are composed of the very atoms and molecules that formed during the big bang and that make up stars and all, but why are bodies so stupid?

My body is so stupid it can’t make normal red blood cells, and now I have to rely on the world’s most expensive medication just to make sure my own immune system doesn’t kill me (it will eventually).

What bothers me the most about this particularly stupid limitation is that it really gets in the way of being good at roller derby, coincidently one of the only things I care about. Oh, are you feeling tired during this jam, body? Maybe you should have thought about that before creating those cancerous stem cells, asshole.

Also, being made of matter complicates things like transportation and mortality. We have to travel between point A and point B to get anywhere, which is pretty dumb when you think about it. And these bodies age over time, experiencing wear and tear the more we use them. I mean, whose idea was this?

Also, they look really stupid most of the time. Case in point: me. 

Then there’s all the stupid questions I have to obsess over every day:

  • -What is consciousness
  • -Is it even real
  • -If it is, where is the boundary between my consciousness and the body that encases it
  • -If my body is subject to time, is my consciousness timeless
  • -How come I wake up as the same me every morning
  • -Or do I just think I’m the same me, when in fact I am a totally different me with an entirely new set of memories
  • -Etc.

There is one person I know of at least who seems totally cool with his body, and that is the guy working on the new boiler system at my office. There’s been a parade of 4-5 different dudebros banging and drilling their way through our building for the past two months, and I’m pretty sure they are all named Randy. They are friendly, hard-working guys, braving the dust and mice in the ceiling, and warning me before every loud noise, which is nice of them.

And at least they are skilled in a useful life trade, while I just stare at screens all day and become quietly enraged over commas.

But they are kind of gross. Two in particular belch loudly on a regular basis. One of them more than once has released a series of farts, nay, a volley of farts, with abandon, including one time while in mid-sentence. This would be fine if it weren’t all happening five feet from my desk.

Moreover, what is he eating? I find burping and farting as hilarious as the next person, but maybe he should see someone about this.

Either way, you’ve gotta be comfortable in your body to just casually let things rip like that. Maybe he is a truly enlightened being, and the path to enlightenment is farting whenever, wherever.

If spiritual teachers have taught us anything, it’s that the journey to nirvana, heaven, enlightenment — whatever you call it — is our most important directive in life, so maybe we should all just embrace our stupid bodies. I certainly am. *farts*

 

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Puking Aardvarks and Other Weird Shit I Wrote About As a Kid

Awkward child or creative genius?

 

On my first day of third grade my class was given the simplest of homework assignments: write a story. It could be on any topic we wanted. Any topic at all, my teacher assured us. I was delighted by the possibilities. I couldn’t wait to get home and start my masterpiece.

That night, the words poured from my tiny brain and onto the wide-ruled paper with fervor. It was my first experience of a piece writing itself and my first time feeling that laser beam focus brought on by inspired writing.

The end result was an epic tome about a family whose home is invaded by a wild aardvark that trashes every room, eats all their food, and then barfs everywhere.

The end.

Not only did I write this story with zeal, but the barfing sequence spanned a whole page. I thought it was a comic triumph, a true literary accomplishment, a droll, insightful tale for the ages. I couldn’t wait to turn it in.

So you can imagine my surprise the next morning when I realized that everyone else had simply written a few paragraphs about their summer vacation. I knew this because my teacher read every story out loud to the class.

As anecdotes of beach outings and Disney World adventures were met with applause and even some Q & A, my puking aardvark extravaganza was followed only by a long, stunned silence that will forever reverberate through my soul. 

I had no friends going into third grade, and needless to say, I did not make any more that year.

I learned a few things that day. (1) I was not like everyone else, (2) there’s a sort of subtext in school and in society that everyone seems to understand but that I clearly do not, and (3) the act of writing awakens weird things in me and perhaps I should tone it down.

The spewing aardvark tale is just one of many strange short stories I wrote as a kid and later threw out from embarrassment. But today I would give anything to be able to read those stories.

Other story premises from my childhood (that I can remember):

  • -A scuba diving family of oceanographers
  • -A fish named Rufus who discovered a treasure chest and had to fight off an evil pirate named Frank (coincidently my oldest brother’s name)
  • -Various adventures of a giant named Arooga Ganooga or something
  • -A haunted house with a mirror that led to another dimension (possible rip-off of a Goosebumps book?)
  • -X-Files fanfiction, including a bananas backstory about the Cigarette Smoking Man being an alien king

All this reminiscing about the absurd things I wrote as a kid is starting to make me think that I was way cooler and more creative back then. If I could tell the eight-year-old me anything, I’d grab her by the shoulders and tell her she is smart and capable and funny and has more potential than all those other boring losers who bully her everyday. I would also tell her to please save all those amazing things she wrote so that I can post a better blog about them in the future.

Stay weird, my dudes.

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