By Sean Pearson
I am confused.
Certainly this is no epiphany to anyone. I know some of you have seen me walking aimlessly around the Safeway parking lot trying desperately to find where I parked my car. That’s not really the kind of “confused” I’m talking about. (Still, would it kill you to point me in the right direction every now and then?)
I’m enigmatically baffled about the whole “life-thing” in general, and consider myself rather lucky to have made it through the entire birthing process relatively unscathed. Of course, when I say “unscathed,” I mean without too severe a sociopathic personality disorder, a disturbingly profuse drooling issue or any unnerving desires to cover my head in tinfoil to ward off those intrusive telepathic TV messages from SpongeBob Squarepants.
And while many of the things the square man tells me seem surprisingly lucid and well thought-out, I refuse to take direction for my life from anything made of cellulose.
It’s just a rule I have.
That’s why I have decided to embrace the Jan Brady life philosophy.
Hear me out:
No accountability. We blame everything on Cindy.
No responsibility. Who needs glasses?
No shame. Why is everything about Marcia, Marcia, Marcia?
The Jan Brady inner-angst philosophy bases your overall success in life on your ability to whine, cry and manipulate your way through a variety of life’s challenges.
Through her deft use of pouting, sniffling and wailing over unimportant and inconsequential circumstances, Brady challenges each of us to find our “sniveling whiner” and let it loose. If you can actually get in touch with that “inner brat” inside, your powers of persuasion via sulking, holding your breath and the use of full-on temper tantrums is certain to lead you right down the path of success.
Believe it or not, I have actually known several people like this over the years. And, contrary to popular opinion, I don’t actually consider myself one of them. Oh sure, I like to whine. But I really do it more for entertainment purposes than anything else. I mean seriously, who wouldn’t want to sit and listen to me complain?
Still, considering there’s the slight possibility that my whining and complaining could — theoretically — be irritating to some people, I’m wondering if I should rethink my newest journey down the path toward Brady enlightenment. (Hey, a lot of self-actualization can happen in a couple of paragraphs. You’d be surprised how close I’ve come to solving issues of nuclear disarmament and world hunger in less than 500 rambling words of nonsense.) I can’t really understand any of it when I’m done, but I have no doubt the answers are in there somewhere — you’ll just have to take my word for it.
The only real problem I foresee in this whole new goal toward nervous nirvana is my general inability to separate reality from … well, not reality. (Some people call it fiction, others refer to it as fantasy. I kinda like to think of it as the “fun” half of my brain.)
Reality can be a relatively obscure area for me. I tend to do black and white fairly well. Gray area? Not so much.
So, in hindsight, instead of embracing my inner Jan Brady, I think — instead — I will return to the wisdom and teachings of SpongeBob. Because, hey … how can you not trust a yellow guy wearing square pants with a pet snail named Gary? And no, I really don’t receive secret messages from SpongeBob over my TV … any more.
That’s why I have Facebook.
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