Brace yourself for a rare moment of non-sarcastic clarity from yours truly. Well, somewhat non-sarcastic. You can't expect me to go cold turkey. At least not without a Methadone drip.
Thanks to Sitemeter and my non-medicated OCD, I've become aware that people are actually reading this thing, more than a few of them complete strangers. To my surprise, none of them have referred me to the local authorities, or petitioned to have me involuntarily committed. But to my bigger surprise, it seems that these people are actually enjoying my stories, and a few are even commenting to that effect. If I had a yearbook, they might sign it something like, "[heart-shape] your blog! BFF4EVR!" At least, they would in my imagination.
I know that, in the grand scheme of things, my blog -- indeed, most any blog -- is pretty inconsequential. There are lots of really important things happening in the world at this very moment. Right now, the New York Times is featuring a spot on combat trauma on the front page, while Tyra Banks is providing her secret path to Fab Abs on the CW. Clearly, whatever I have to say cannot compete with that. (Side-note: Has anyone ever gone to Tyra's website? It basically takes over your entire computer. When I closed the window, I half-expected Tyra's face to pop up and ream me out for "giving up on myself.")
And I also know that the "blogosphere" (whoever came up with that word should be honored and then shot) is already eyeball deep in narcissistic ruminations by people who probably should spend more time thinking about others and less about themselves. Maybe, as a general matter, I fall into that category. After I started the blog, my ex-boyfriend Jason told me that I think more about myself than anyone he knows. I think that was his roundabout way of saying I'm self-obsessed, although on second thought, perhaps it wasn't so roundabout.
But despite Jason's unintentional slur -- which he'll surely pay for in a future post, natch -- I don't really write for myself. Blogging is not therapeutic for me. I have a full-time, well-paid therapist who fills that role. And she earns her keep, believe me. I don't think her many years of schooling could have prepared her when I walked through that door. Most people present with one or two disorders, but I'm a psychological onion. So understanding myself better is not the goal of this blog -- I understand myself well enough, thank you. (But not too well. I need to sleep at night.)
Simply put -- I write, dear reader, for you. Because, for better or worse, I believe there's no higher calling than making people happy, in whatever way, shape, or form you can. Mother Teresa did it by feeding the poor. I do it by making penis jokes. Perhaps not equally impactful or self-sacrificial acts, but we all contribute as best we can. Sure, I don't have the strength or resolve that she had, and my fragile stomach could never handle living in Calcutta, but if we went head-to-head in a raunchy humor competition, I'd surely come out on top. You can't make a good penis joke if you can't even say the word penis.
And don't underestimate the power of laughter. A laugh might not cure cancer, but it can give it a run for its money. I survived high school by making bullies laugh. You'd be surprised how quickly someone forgets about beating the crap out of you when you crack a good fart joke. And a laugh can organize the chaos. If a butterfly flapping its wings in Montana can make it rain in Phoenix, think what a smile from a law student in Virginia could do for the Amazon.
So screw the grand scheme of things. My goal is to make every person on this planet laugh, at least once. I'm anticipating a few obstacles -- Martha Stewart hasn't laughed since 1983, and I might have to slip Dick Cheney a laxative to get a chuckle out of him. But if you've read the last post, you know I've got plenty of time. Between this goal and reading War and Peace, I'm going to need every one of those 117 years.
And for those who have already laughed, my sincerest thanks for your support so far, and KIT. You're 2 Good 2 B 4 Gotten.
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