I’m Just Sayin: I’ve Finally Worked Out The Meaning Of Life

If I didn’t know better, I’d say that the universe is definitely out to get me.
As a matter of fact, I had imagined in great details this colossal inter-galactic coming together of all cosmos, constellations and celestial creatures at some stellar lah-de-dah resort to remarkably concoct a massive conspiracy against me. Because, surely, I am the center of the universe!

Well, if anything, I adamantly thought so for a long while. But then, I realized that that was not it at all. The universe is not on this grand super secret classified mission to nail my ass down, it already has! I’m not being pessimistic here; really it’s old science. It’s called the Laws of Gravity. And I’m not the one who made it up, some guy by the name of Newton did. The way it works is basically very simple: all objects and things possessing mass fundamentally fall downward.

Now I don’t mean to be condescending or disrespectful, but seriously I didn’t really need this Newton chap to pull a Thomas Dolby on me and try to blind me with science. This is ridiculously obvious common sense! I know perfectly well that my ass is a mass (and quite a heavy one, I might add) so unless someone proves me otherwise – like perhaps there’s actually a removable magnet transplanted in my derriere which causes the natural pulling to the ground – I’m just gonna let it be.

Of course, that doesn’t mean I’m not going to try to defy it once in a very often while!
I’m not being a smart-ass belligerent rebel looking for trouble and trying to cause a ruckus, but honestly, as hard as I always try to comprehend the very fundamentals of this theory, I still can’t fully wrap my brain around its mechanism. What that means is that while I can be mature enough to accept it, I don’t necessarily have to adhere to it. In other words, I am agreeing to disagree!

Let’s be real here! As much as I do have a caustic sense of humor, sometimes the universe really pisses me off. What can I say? I just don’t like it when my intellectual integrity is incoherently being challenged, not mention when said universe is making a royal fool of me. Now, I’ll take some of the responsibilities, as I am thoroughly aware that I don’t always take precautions against it. But in my defense, it’s not just because I don’t read manuals, it’s mainly due to the fact that I never received whatever Hitchhiker’s navigation guide to the galaxy the rest of the world is apparently reading.

As far as I’m concerned, it wouldn’t make a huge life-changing difference anyway.
As Columbus said “You never get as far as when you do not know where it goes”. Granted, I’m not a high-tech geek – as in I’m not particularly interested in getting caught up in all the latest fancy gadgets produced in the name of modern technology– and, yes, I passionately detest this little device called a GPS. But mind you, I always manage to get somewhere – albeit not without having first gone through myriads of detours, construction zones, cul-de-sacs, bender-fenders, and driving in the wrong direction as well as hitting the curb once or twice, or more than a few times.

Yet, while a lot of things infallibly seem to go beyond my comprehension, not to mention totally escape the scope of my attention, here’s what, on the other hand, I know for sure: the secret of life is that there’s no big secret at all.

It took me years to figure it out but I finally discovered what life is all about: it’s about everything that means absolutely nothing!
That’s right! The point of it all is that whatever point there is to get, clearly, I just keep missing it. And that’s just it! Life makes abso-fucking-lutely no sense. The truth of the matter is that we’re simply all part of a huge cosmic joke.

Somehow I’ve come to understand this comical tragedy intrinsically. I can already hear my friend McKenzie barking her “please make an appointment with Bob” order at me. Seriously at this stage of my life –meaning being a member of the “women 35 and over are at risk” endangered species – the only reason why I would lay down on a couch is to take a nap – you got to preserve whatever breath of youth is left. I don’t need professional help anymore to know that I have, probably ever since the beginning, brilliantly wrecked my relationship with the universe based on my own pathologies.

Luckily, for the most part, I’m still stuck with the same problems as I had when I was a teenager. The only difference is that now the name of the game is called IRONY and I just play differently. I’ve taken myself to a whole new higher level of stand up comedy, metaphorically speaking. And mind you, none of this ambitious upgrading extravaganza happened deliberately, much less progressively. All I know is that when I went to bed yesterday the entire planet was calling me “Mademoiselle” and when I woke up today, suddenly now I’ve magically become “Madame”. What the fuck happened? Did I miss something? You’d think the freaking universe would have sent me a freaking courtesy memo – RUDE! A little advance notice would, at the very least, have been nice…I’m just sayin’!

But ok, never mind the name prefix formalities; that’s just semantics! Obviously in the big scheme of things, there are much bigger issues to really be preoccupied with.
As a fervent control freak what I’m majorly concerned with is this fucking universe’s ability to pull some spectacularly absurd tricks on me. Again, I’m not lacking in the “sense of humor” department and feel quite blessed to have access to my own dementia. I have no problem making fun of myself and I am the first one to laugh at my rather impressive portfolio of imbecilities, but I usually do so so that no one else can. The problem is when this so-called universe is one step ahead of me and insists on turning the joke on me.

Consider this: when I was an adolescent I spent the bulk of my time wrecking my brain to find the most plausible excuse – as in the perfect lie – to be able to go out with my friends. Here’s how “persuading the parents” process would usually play out: “Mom, I swear Beatrice’s parents will be there”; or “the entire school is going to that party, please mom, can I go too? Otherwise I’ll be the only one left out and won’t have any friends”; and how about the universal good-intentioned “If you let me go, I promise I’ll do the dishes for a month and I’ll wash your car too”; or my personal favorite when you include your outing in your studies “Can I go see Flashdance with my girlfriends? It’s for a school project! Really, it’s a field trip mom!”

Cut to twenty-something years later and nothing has terribly changed, except for one minor detail. Of course I still lie! Only now, sardonically, I find myself in the predicament of having to make shit up to NOT go out. I know! How ironic, right?
What’s even more dramatic is that as much as it is mentally exhausting to constantly have to be creative and fabricate legitimate excuses to not join my friends in their nocturnal escapades, it is twice as much draining to have to remember my lie.

For those of you who want to try this at home, I suggest you remain as vague as possible – the trick is to maintain a certain level of confidence so you avoid sounding skittish. The bottom line is that you don’t really have to justify yourself. For instance: “I would love to join but I have a prior commitment”; or inspire empathy “that sounds like a lot of fun but I’m under deadline for work and will most likely pull an all-nighter”; as a last resort, you can also opt for the killer excuse “I have explosive diarrhea” – that one is guaranteed to instantly shut everybody up and deter the obnoxiously persistent ones from any attempts to convince you otherwise.
Trust me! I’ve formulated so many imaginary alibis in my life time that now excuses spew out of me spontaneously.

The thing is that the older I get, the stronger this fucking law of gravity gets on my ass. It’s not that I’ve become anti-social – well maybe just a smudge – I’m just lazy! The entire process of going out requires too much of a mega production I am just not physically equipped, nor willing, to invest in. Plus what most of my friends find jovial and entertaining, I see as an intolerable ordeal to torturously have to suffer through. Every perpetual expedition inevitably revolves around alcohol binging and human hunting. Not only am I eternally on a diet, I’m also happily dating my couch – and we’ve been going steady for a while.

The point that I have been trying to make here is very simple: the meaning of the purpose of life becomes meaningful only when you to take it non-seriously. As Charlie Chaplin once said, “In the end, everything is a gag.” The reason why nothing makes sense whatsoever is because there is no sense to be made. The incomprehension of life rests in the hilarious ridiculousness of its paradox – meaning the comedy always hidden underneath the tragedy. Confused? So am I!

Really, getting the cosmic joke is all about learning to laugh at yourself and at life!
And here’s my smart-ass bootie wickedly defying the gravity (of the situation): I’m a thirteen-years old child freakishly trapped in a thirty-nine years old body famously stuck somewhere in 1984. You see? I’m the epitome of illogical! But what if I care. The 80s are make a colossal comeback anyway – so F#@K you the universe!

Who’s got the last laugh now?