How To Suck At Life

You’ve been in denial for far too long. The Mt. Everest-sized heap of garbage piled up in your kitchen is just about ready to take over the room and, eventually, the entire house. Oh, you’ve crammed item after item into the mush, anything to delay the inevitable. You flattened the box of Rice Krispies. You attempted to smush the carton of milk. You delicately placed the Mama Celeste remnants at the top of the summit, but this precarious situation can no longer hold: it’s time to take out the trash.

In lieu of donning a biohazard suit, you roll up your sleeves and crouch beside the basket. Seizing the little red Ropes of Helpfulness, you try to yank the bag out of the can, but to no avail. That thing is jammed in there so tight, you may just have to retrieve a chainsaw from the garage to free it. But your very, very smart brain has a better idea: tip the basket so you can slide the bag out, instead of lifting it! What could possibly go wrong?

You tilt it ever so gingerly, and the bag finally begins to dislodge itself at roughly the same speed as a glacier. Sweaty and exhausted, you continue to struggle and pull and heave at the damn thing, until all of a sudden it finally dislodges, popping out of the can like a chicken out of a chicken cannon (you watch a lot of Mythbusters). Inordinately pleased with yourself, you tie it up (double knotted for Safety) and begin dragging it through the house, completely unaware of the foul, disgusting trail you are leaving in your wake. Once you get outside, you reach the bin and happily place the bag into its new home. But – what’s that on the side? A tear? And what’s that running down your leg??

Oh dear Lord almighty. It’s trash juice.

“Trash juice!” you begin shouting at the bag, hopping away as if it had suddenly exploded into a fiery ball of spiders. Now jumping around and shrieking “Ew ew ew ew ew” but not actually doing anything to clean up this disaster, you flee into the house, whereupon you discover only more slimy goo waiting for you. Covered in an unidentifiable substance and reeking of a smell that does nothing but prompt wave after wave of nausea, you tear off your clothes in a blind panic and dive headfirst into a shower, where you stay for roughly three hours, scrubbing your skin raw and sobbing. Always with the sobbing.

So if you want to suck at life, encounter the dreaded trash juice. You may be forced to throw out that new pair of $93 jeans, but don’t worry: the stench will stay with you forever.

You don’t know why you can’t fall asleep. You’re not sure why you ate an entire Family Size bag of Cheetos. And you sure as hell can’t explain why you’re slouched in front of the television at approximately 4:05 am and still watching Comedy Central hours after the actual programming went off the air. The last thing you can remember is a funny Jon Stewart quip. Now all you can think about is Ronco Rotisserie Ovens. “Set it and forget it!” you mutter as you drift in and out of consciousness, blindly groping for the telephone that, mysteriously, has already been used several times tonight.

Fast forward six days. The doorbell rings. You shuffle to the door, fling it upon, and proceed to gape as your jaw literally detaches itself from your face and falls to the floor. Dozens of oddly shaped boxes, cartons, bags, and cages are littering your front porch. The poor hapless UPS guy, whose face you never see, sticks his little electronic signy-pad thing through a tiny crack in the packages. You scribble something illegible, which, due to the incredibly poor quality of these devices, could very well resemble the signature of an old, blind wolverine. As the delivery guy flees the neighborhood, never to be seen again, you begin to take stock of your new items.

You’ve done three, maybe four sit-ups in your entire life. So why did you feel the need to purchase a home gym, Thighmaster, AND a Bowflex? And – oh dear Lord – that couldn’t possibly be Tony Little’s Gazelle, is it? How on earth did that creepy pony-tailed android assmonkey convince you to purchase a glorified sidewalk?

But the horror doesn’t end with fitness supplies. In addition to your commitment to becoming an American Gladiator, your insomniac self also decided that that crazy drunken wench Julia Child has nothing on you. You want nothing more than to make the next season of Top Chef, even if the real reason is a fervent desire to tickle Tom Collichio’s shiny head. Rotisserie ovens, Salad Shooters, vacuum sealing bags, pasta makers, Magic Bullets…the kitchen gadgetry is endless. But given that the most complicated meal you’ve constructed for yourself as of late was Mac N’Cheese with Cheez-It crumbles on top, washed down with a spicy lime Ramen, you’re not exactly sure where this Chilean Sea Bass Steamer is quite going to fit in.

You also now own a hypoallergenic cat. WHY do you own a hypoallergenic cat?? It’s sitting upon your new Temperpedic mattress, coughing up the Hoodia pills it just ate and rolling around in a massive tub of Mighty Putty. And you’re out more money than you can ever, ever admit to any of your straight friends.

So if you want to suck at life, buy something from an infomercial. You may have done your Christmas shopping for the next five years, but no one’s getting your Solid Flavor Injector until they pry it from your cold, dead, garlic-infused hands.

Because all people (excluding Amish folks and the elderly) want to hear your thoughts on the most mundane aspects of life. Find a piece of lint in your breakfast sandwich? Blog that shit. See a homeless guy eat a dead pigeon? Alert the internet. Suffer through a painful breakup that threatens to rip apart every fiber of your shattered soul? Fire up that Livejournal. Moan in a meme. Express your displeasure through emoticons and an indication of which Linkin Park and/or Evanescence song you’re currently sobbing to.

By writing a blog, you’re more or less alerting the world that you have a lot of free time and no one to talk to other than the cold, lifeless face of a blank computer screen. Sure, you put in a couple hours of work or school a day, but let’s face it – your stench alone is enough to put actual human encounters right out of the question. But that doesn’t make it any less imperative for you to get your thoughts on the latest episode of Battlestar Galactica out to that guy in Alaska who still thinks that Starbuck is a Cylon. You’ve got a thing or two to tell that ignorant assclown!

Never mind that you haven’t seen the sun in several months. Never mind that Cheetos make up the foundation of your personal food pyramid. Never mind that you can only dislodge yourself from your chair with the aid of a special “prying stick”. Countless of other cave-dwelling vampires need – nay – crave your musings on what Hilary Clinton’s shoe color says about her stance on health care. It’s your duty as an informed American.

Writing a blog is the first step to successfully sucking at life. And don’t listen to your detractors. They’ll tell you to “grow up”, “get a life”, “the internet is nothing but a series of tubes”, or “Go outside, Jeffrey. For heaven’s sake, you’re becoming translucent.” They’re just jealous of your WordPress prowess.

So don’t worry about it. You’ll get in touch with nature when you’re dead and buried in God’s green earth. Your Technorati ranking, however, will live on forever.