Sometimes I like to play a little game called “Why I’m Doomed.” This is similar to the game “What’s Wrong With Me?” which is when I scan my body for tumors and palpitations and phantom pains. It’s a hysterical displacement activity, meant to explain anxiety I’m already feeling because I’m cuckoo. Understanding these things doesn’t change them, people. G.I. Joe lied!
Previous games of “Why I’m Doomed” have revolved around popular topics such as “Maybe I’ll Never Write Again,” or “Secretly, I’m Getting Very Fat,” or “It’s Possible That Everyone I Know Is Irritated With Me.”
Today, however, I’m rocking “I Will Never Have a Boyfriend Again.” This is an excellent version, and good for at least two weeks of solid boo-hooing, at which point, my friends will be sufficiently bored with my behavior that they’ll stop returning my calls, and I can go back to “It’s Possible That Everyone I Know Is Irritated With Me.”
I’m quite resourceful about my insanity. For example, today I informed Ma Smash that every time I see a woman with unfortunate body or facial hair, I wonder if she knows that she has this unfortunate hair. And then I wonder if I have unfortunate hair, and nobody has had the heart to tell me.
“By the time I’m done, I’m pretty much convinced that my entire face is totally covered with hair, just like those Wolf Boys in the Mexican Circus. Do you know what I mean?”
Ma Smash paused. “I can honestly say I never thought of it. But I will now. Every time I look at someone with extra hair. So … thanks.”
Do you think she was being sarcastic?