Archive for Temporary Insanity

40. Fail to maintain consciousness.

Of course you didn’t mean to stay up until five in the morning watching the I Love the 80’s Marathon. Of course you knew that you had to get up at seven o’clock in order to get to work in time to give your big presentation. And of course, you certainly shouldn’t have been drinking. But, as always, you were powerless against the charming witticisms of Michael Ian Black. You were weak.

So here you are, in bed, wafting gently through a dream featuring Members Only jackets, The Breakfast Club, and Steve Guttenberg. A strident, evil blaring suddenly cuts through a vision of the Gremlins. Your alarm clock dances and sings around your nightstand, thrilled to death that the sun has risen again. Groggily, you blindly grope in its general direction, eventually slapping it across the face and somehow managing to silence its cheerful rings. You look at the clock and yawn, then give strict orders to your body to drag itself out of bed and begin the day.

Which it promptly ignores. Against your will, you drift back down to the mattress and snuggle under the covers, while the lying hemisphere of your brain tries to persuade the other, gullible hemisphere that you’re only resting your eyes for a few more minutes. Of course, this only leads to a prompt loss of consciousness that no amount of thunderstorms, foghorns, or heavy artillery fire can stop.

Forty minutes later, you literally fly out of bed, jumping so high you practically destroy the ceiling fan. How could this possibly have happened? You were UP! You were awake! The alarm clock did its job, and you did yours! How could you have thrown it all away by foolishly submitting to the needs of your desperately sleep-deprived body?? Now you’re ludicrously late, the meeting has already started, and here you are, brushing your teeth and getting dressed all at the same messy time, your delicately crafted powerpoints now useless, mocking and berating you in the form of a colorful pie chart.

So if you want to suck at life, fail to maintain consciousness. Oversleeping is easy; doing it with finesse takes skill.


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36. Look at your watch when asked for the date.

You’ve been pestering your buddy about this check all month. You paid full price for that Sweatin’ to the Oldies collection, and you’ve both been sharing custody of it for weeks now, so it’s about time you got back your share of the investment.

So your buddy pulls out the ole checkbook, writes out the amount, and off-handedly asks you what the date is. Now, it should be noted that directly behind you there is a wall calendar (Discovery Channel’s Grisliest Predatory Kills of the Savanna). Directly in front of you, on a desk, is a page-a-day calendar (Anne Geddes’ Babies Are Precious). And you both just so happen to be standing in the post office, where the date is plastered onto every bit of free space that isn’t already covered with commemorative stamps of Britney Spears’ Most Memorable Car Wrecks.

But you don’t look at any of these items. You look at your watch.

And your watch is not one of those massive doohickeys with dates, alarms, calculators, barometers, can openers, and a fully-functioning toaster oven. It’s a plain old watch. A Spongebob Squarepants watch, in fact, that you received/stole from a child at McDonald’s. And it’s not even set to the right time, blinking 12:00 over and over in a digital cry for help.

But it doesn’t matter. You’re sure, positive, for those few brief moments, that a confident glance at your helpful wrist will give you the information you’re looking for. Mayhaps a calendar has evolved into the circuitry since the last time you looked? Who knows? Alas, all you get from that useless hunk of plastic is an overwhelming sense of failure, and a stern look of reproach from Squidward.

So if you want to suck at life, look at your watch when asked for the date. You won’t find the answer there, but you will find a reason to get back on your meds as quickly as possible.

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25. Fall out of bed.

You’re having that dream again. The one where you and your third grade teacher, Mrs. Knopsider, are running through a field of posies in the style of a Clarinex commercial. You can breathe so free and easy! The congestion is gone!

Suddenly, a cliff looms up ahead. You turn back to Mrs. Knopsider, only to find a fire hydrant where she previously stood. Well, that’s just unhelpful. You glance up at the sky, filled with flying toasters. A bullhorn sounds behind you. You whip around, brandishing a catfish. It can’t be! All the people you’ve ever slept with are charging towards you, waving baguettes, sporks, and floor lamps! You must escape! The only way out is the cliff. You peek over the edge and gaze into the pale orange waters below. A pterodactyl screeches by, beckoning for you to jump and towing an ad for a sale on futons. You hold your breath, hug your childhood hamster tight, and take the plunge.

You land, for some reason, on a cold, hard floor. Huh? Now is the moment you become really confused, ironically enough. This reality makes no sense. You were just named Dictator for Life in the land of Narnia, and now you’re here? In your room? With no pants on? Something has gone horribly wrong.

Confused, groggy, and bleeding, you grope around the floor for something that might provide an explanation. Shoe? What the hell is a shoe doing in the land of Narnia?? You begin throwing random pieces of clothing across the room, hoping to defend yourself against the horde of exes whom you still believe to be surrounding you. If only you still had your catfish!

Your roommate/mother/live-in psychiatrist rushes in to determine the source of the deafening crash heard throughout the rest of the house, only to find you writhing in a state of delirium and shouting “I’m just not looking for a serious relationship right now!” at no one in particular. They attempt to rouse you from the hallucinations, but you just bite their ankle and call them a “smelly Nutter Butter”. They drape a pair of pants over your naked torso and leave, frightened. They won’t be back.

Finally, exhausted, you submit to the forces of consciousness and snap back to reality. You’re covered in dust, drool, and Oreo crumbs. Your head hurts. Your elbow is sticking out at an odd angle. And worst of all, you have to be at the office in twenty minutes. They won’t buy that pterodactyl story again. Not twice in one week.

So if you want to suck at life, fall out of bed. Lesser people would purchase bed rails to keep from flinging themselves about the room during states of deep unconsciousness, but not you. Every trip to the floor is another adventure. Plus, two more concussions and you get unlimited ER parking.

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