Non-Fiction

Chicken Skin

"They Said They'd Be There For Me"

By Gabriela Kalter

(originally published for www.breakthruradio.com)

Chicken Skin is a new pop culture column to BreakThru Radio that contemplates the deeper meaning, if any, to what is, or was ever, popular. For our inaugural edition, Gabriela Kalter discusses her miseducation in adulthood via the '90s smash sitcom.

~~~

It's been almost 10 years since the series finale of Friends aired on NBC, but thanks to my kickass DVD collection and broadcast syndication on the likes of Nick at Night and TBS, I get to hang out with these besties pretty regularly. Monica, Chandler, Ross, Rachel, Phoebe, and Joey have always been very reliable friends, showing up on my TV screen with the simple click of a remote. They're always around, always hanging out, making jokes, drinking coffee, and sitting in Central Perk on their favorite green velour couch, right where I always need them to be.

Of course, I know they aren't real. They're fictionalized sitcom characters that were created with a strategically developed dynamic to ensure good ratings and continued support from the network. And while I'm able to intellectually acknowledge this fact, the gang always seemed so real to me, like I was hanging out with my own best friends and cracking up alone in the living room as the laugh track blared between jokes.

Friends created this world of comfort for not only the characters to live in, but for the audience to lose themselves in as well. The six friends were each other's family in a big scary world where it's so easy to feel alone. And maybe the six twenty somethings living in the Big Apple wouldn't have really been friends with 12-year-old me sitting in New Jersey snacking on Gushers and Fruit Roll Ups, but there was no way for them to ever actually reject me and that was a good enough criterion for me to somehow feel like I was part of that world.

Yet subscribing to these fictionalized ideas of friendship has proven to be colossally idiotic. The reality of the world that Monica, Chandler, Ross, Rachel, Phoebe, and Joey live in requires a significant suspension of disbelief on the viewers' part, and if you are going to successfully separate that cozy Friends world from real life, there are some very important differences to keep in mind.

Number one, if you want to enter someone else's apartment, you have to knock. This is a big one. Since the premiere of the pilot in 1994, Friends seemed to operate under the obscure notion that if you wanted to visit a friend's apartment, whether it's across the hall or across the street, no one had to knock. Monica definitely suffered the brunt of such misguided social behavior as her apartment became the headquarters of sorts. Across the hall from Joey and Chandler (and later, Joey and Rachel), Monica's apartment easily saw the most foot traffic and visitors who almost never seemed to knock.

The barge-through-the-door move was such a staple and a true cementation of the comfort that the friends felt with each other. It's a beautiful homage to the loving bond between the six of them, (blah, blah, blah).

But, real life doesn't work like that. Real life has boundaries. Real life people love their boundaries, especially New Yorkers. So, don't be fooled like I was. It's not okay to open people's doors at your leisure. I don't care if you're bored or lonely or what, and neither do the people on the other side of that door that you're barging into. (Sorry to the people in my freshman dorm.)

This brings me to my next unrealistic social practice gleaned from Friends. Grown-ups have to show up to work. If you're living in the village in a spacious apartment, there's no way you're not going to show up at work as much as it seemed the Friends gang didn't have to. Monica was a chef, Ross was a Professor of Paleontology, Rachel worked at Bloomingdale's (and later Ralph Lauren), Chandler computed numbers or something, Phoebe was a massage therapist and street guitarist, and Joey was an untalented (sorry) actor with a short run on Days of Our Lives and some shitty parts in small plays.

Despite the periodic mention of Monica's apartment being rent controlled, there's just no way that she (or the rest of them) would have gotten by considering the amount of time they spent hanging out at Central Perk compared to the amount of time they spent at work.

Real adults who can afford to live a comfortable NYC lifestyle are at their jobs working most of the time rather than chatting with their friends at 11am on a Tuesday at the local coffee shop. And sure, we would see the friends at their respective jobs in various episodes, but the fact is, there were just too many weekday afternoons that were spent playing hooky from work and drinking coffee.

Something else you should know - You will never get to sit on the same couch every time you enter your local coffee shop, especially if that couch is seemingly the largest, most spacious, most comfortable couch in the entire joint. I mean literally every time? They always got that couch and there was always at least one of them sitting in Central Perk just under the assumption that the others would soon arrive. Did they ever call each other and plan to meet there? Or was it always coincidental that they all showed up to hang out together? And I know that Gunther was in love with Rachel, but does that mean he reserved the big comfy couch for her and her friends to occupy every single time they entered the cafe? Also, I feel like there are a lot more bars and uncomfortable dark club situations in your twenties than Friends would have us believe.

There is also no way in hell that Monica was once an overweight chubster. We are supposed to somehow believe that Courtney Cox was once an overeating fatty? You can tell she's just naturally skinny and always has been. The 'used to be fat' things just always seemed like a bit of a stretch to me. On top of it all, we're supposed to believe that she dropped all of that weight in one year, between the Thanksgiving where Chandler said she was fat and the next Thanksgiving where she sought out revenge and in an effort to embarrass Chandler like he embarrassed her, she ends up chopping off one of his toes. (Great episode by the way.)

But seriously, in one year? Maybe this is why my impression of weight loss and the time line of seeing actual results in severely skewed. Thanks Monica. Not only will I never think I'm skinny enough, but I will feel even worse knowing how far you've come in comparison.

With ten consistently entertaining seasons, (quiet to all you Friends haters, I will never quite understand where you're coming from) there was never a dull moment. Despite the laugh tracks, the sometimes intrusive popularity of the show, and the fact the Matt LeBlanc's spinoff Joey was a total disaster, Friends holds a very special place in my heart.

The world of the sitcom is understandably skewed, I guess it's up to us as the viewers to accept that and make a very clear distinction between the world of the show and the world we actually live in. To leave you with even more to think about, here are some additional observations regarding the unrealistic behaviors and social interactions of our beloved (fictional) pals on Friends.

• If you are an out of work actor like Joey, you probably won't score a two bedroom apartment in the village. Also, I felt like Joey was almost too dumb sometimes. Like, how had he gotten this far in life being this stupid?

• If you don't have a friend who's a chef like Monica, you should probably learn to cook for yourself. Also, Monica totally spoiled her friends by always cleaning and hosting and taking in Rachel when she ran out on her wedding even though they hadn't spoken in years. I don't think that these kind of magical people actually exist.

• If you're a weirdo, ex-convict like Phoebe who used to live on the streets after her mother committed suicide, and once had a pimp spit in her mouth, it's probably going to be a lot harder to find a normal group of friends than the show would have you believe.

• If you and your sibling don't have a relationship like Monica and Ross, don't think you aren't as close. In fact, at times it may be for the best to maintain a separate group of friends. As a kid, I would make my brother promise me that we would grow up to be like Monica and Ross, but I don't quite think they're who we should be aspiring towards.

• If you can see ugly naked guy in his apartment all of the time, then he can also see you. Knowing that he is naked most of the time with the ability to see into your apartment should be more alarming and uncomfortable than portrayed on the show.

• Life is way messier and more uncomfortable than these friends make it seem. Sometimes we are going to feel super alone and we won't have Monica across the hall to make us a lasagna or homemade jam or truffles. We just have to lift our heads and be our own best friend sometimes.

Ridiculous Riders

By Gabriela Kalter

(originally published for www.breakthruradio.com)

Ah, the perks of the rich and famous: private jets, personal assistants, designer threads, huge endorsement deals, and... fresh toilet seats? Yes, among the list of demands required for performance by the one and only Madonna is a brand new toilet seat upon her arrival at any given venue. The disposable paper lining won't cut it for this material girl; she wants nothing less than the shine of fresh, untouched porcelain against her delicate derriere.

If this sounds crazy, that's probably because it is. I guess being an international pop sensation somehow warrants stipulations of such high maintenance; the list of peculiar celebrity demands most certainly doesn't end there. From food choice to furniture and everything in between, the specifications included in famous artists' contracts run the gamut. In the negotiation of any large performance, an artist provides the venue's promoter with a detailed document known as a rider, which meticulously outlines the 'needs' of the talent, contractually binding the venue to oblige.

The fascination with concert riders can be dated back to 1982, during the heyday of American hair metal, with Van Halen's infamous 52-page-long document including the 'M&M' prohibition. Amongst an extensive list of required drinks and munchies, Van Halen's rider requests a bowl of M&Ms, but explicitly warns against the presence of any brown ones. That's right, some poor lackey got the coveted honor of manually removing all of the brown M&Ms from the candy bowl.

Often criticized for being unreasonably excessive, Van Halen's M&M clause set the precedent for the continuation of unruly celebrity demands in the music industry. However, the band insists that the ridiculous specification was a deliberate tool used to gauge the attentiveness of the promoters. Adherence to this small detail was meant to prove whether or not the rider was actually read in its entirety. Eddie and his cohorts claim that if their backstage snack failed to meet the brown-free standard, they would have reason to speculate that more crucial aspects of production -- such as staging, sound and lighting -- could be carelessly overlooked in the same manner. A valid point perhaps counter-intuitively executed.

Catering needs often comprise a good chunk of the concert rider, making promoters aware of various dietary restrictions and comfort foods that artists prefer. Metallica's 2004 rider suggests an enthusiastic love of bacon, demanding (in CAPS, no less) that it be available at every meal during the day. The heavy- metal rockers also get particular about their brand of water (NO EVIAN), and want vegetarian baked beans (Heinz 57) alongside the bacon. At least some of their requirements are environmentally-friendly; they specify that no styrofoam cups be used. Kudos to that, Metallica.

Other strange food demands include 50 Cent's note that there be no beef in the vicinity of his dressing room, Michael Bolton's aversion to onions, Clay Aiken's distinct request that there be "no nuts, mushrooms, coffee, mint, chocolate or shellfish," and perhaps my favorite request of all, Carrot Top's "no carrot cake" stipulation.

Thankfully, some stars recognize how silly the concert rider can be and decide to have a little fun with it. Iggy Pop's 18-page rider, written by The Stooges' roadie Jos Grain, provides the promoter with material that's delightfully entertaining and quirky -- adjectives not routinely associated with contracts. The document is colored with amusing rants about incompetent monitor men and sassy lighting guys. It even includes an addendum outlining a pitch for a kooky reality show entitled "Dead Dog Island," where contestants are presented with a dead canine of their favorite breed, challenged to cook it in six or seven different ways, and then eat it. I would definitely maybe watch this.

In homage to the tone of the Iggy Pop rider, The Foo Fighters deliver their demands in a similarly humorous fashion. Some highlights include the request for four pairs of tube socks, four pairs of boxer shorts (because who doesn't love clean underwear), fresh vegetables with a note exclaiming that cauliflower blows (which it does), and an assortment of various cheeses (next to which appears a declaration that Dave Grohl loves stinky cheese.)

Unfortunately, most concert riders aren't so comical, and asinine demands are given in complete seriousness. Take Katy Perry, for instance. This California girl’s strict rider contains very defined requirements for dressing room décor, including the presence of two cream-colored egg chairs (one with a foot stool), and a refrigerator with a glass door. I guess opening the fridge to see its contents isn't part of this diva's teenage dream. Apparently neither are carnations. She requests some oddly specific flowers, like white and purple hydrangeas, pink and white roses and peonies, white orchids, but NO carnations. God forbid.

But, what's maybe the most frustrating part of Ms. Perry's rider is the section that addresses her chauffeur. It's sternly mentioned that her driver is prohibited from starting any conversations with her, must have their cell phone ringer turned off, and is not allowed to even so much as glance at the backseat through the rearview mirror. Whoa, talk about being a pop princess.

Speaking of music industry royalty, let's talk Britney. Ms. Spears requires a private telephone line for outgoing calls only. In fact, if she receives any unauthorized calls in her dressing room, she reserves the right to impose a fine on the promoter for $5,000. I'm sure those promoters are feverishly praying that no one accidentally dials the wrong number, or else they're out five grand. Oysh, that's a pretty steep price to pay for someone else's chubby fingers.

Jennifer Lopez's demands are also rather over the top. J.Lo's rider specifies that everything in her dressing room be strictly white: couches, chairs, flowers, drapes, everything. Not cream, not ivory, but white. She also asks for an assortment of French diptyque candles- specifically the tuberose and heliotrope blends (whatever those entail.) These Parisian mixtures of wax and perfume go for about $50 a pop, kind of a pricey request to make for the taping of a charity music video, no? I don't think she's still Jenny from the block, because Jenny from the block would probably settle for some matches and a can of air freshener.

Maybe it's the attention from the media that's inflating their egos, maybe it's the multi-platinum record sales, or maybe it's just the fact that they know their crazy demands will be met. But, whatever the reason, pop stars and rock idols continue to demonstrate their flair for the dramatic. TheSmokingGun.com provides an extensive list of insane concert riders, including the pdfs of the original documents. The demands these stars make are pretty far-fetched, but maybe what's more unbelievable is the fact that we're continually willing to comply.

         Gabi. Ross. Dew. The three words that echo in my mind as life’s ironic reminder that things don’t always pan out the way we hope. In fact, things often go in the complete opposite direction of our hopes and dreams, as if asking the universe for a favor is guaranteed to heed the complete reverse result. Like, somehow it always rains on the day of your garage sale even though you made a specific request to the rain Gods to cut you some slack. Or how about that pimple you prayed not to get, conveniently popping up on that special day where photo ops are plentiful and the boy you like asks you to dance, except you have to decline because of the crater that’s engulfed your face.

         These are the curveballs that make me afraid of baseball, the unexpected ironies that paint life with that gross pea-soup color that you specifically try to avoid. Life punches the wind right out of us sometimes, hits us right in the gut when we least suspect it. This is an important lesson I learned in second grade, the one I remember with the most clarity. It wasn’t the section on fractions that stuck with me, or the pilgrims on the Mayflower, or even the latest Judy Blume installment. I graduated second grade with a sense of life’s ironic capability to slap little girls in the face while discouraging hitting. The lesson innocently took shape in the form of a class project, a project that began and ended with three words: Gabi, Ross, Dew.

         It’s not like I hated group projects ... Okay, no- that’s exactly what it was. I hated them. I know hate’s a strong word, but I’m using it. It very accurately describes how second-grade Gabi felt towards the existence of “the group project.” The teachers would drag on about how working in groups was a good experience; how talking things out with your peers, and having to produce some sad-looking poster or little 3-D diorama in a shoebox was going to make you better in some way. And while part of me knew that they were right, the louder part of me felt that group projects were a mean joke that the teachers got some sick kick out of.

         In any case, second-grade me knew that teachers needed a little entertainment and that’s why they made such a spectacle of group projects. But, they’re a part of every school experience- except maybe homeschooling. My point is that they happen, regardless of the general disdain that all students hold for them. Usually, all you can do is hope that you get through each one while you cross your fingers, praying that it’s the last one you’ll ever have.  

         Well, in Mrs. Miller’s second grade class that I was in every afternoon until 3:15, the group project was suddenly getting serious.

         We were being split into pairs, each pair assigned to a specific state of water- so, some groups got steam, or evaporation, or freezing, you get the picture. Thinking back, I can’t believe this was an actual project. But, we were seven and Mrs. Miller was adamant about adhering to the curriculum.

         However, she exercised her creativity in other ways. In the twisted teacher-realm of plotting awkward group projects, Mrs. Miller turned it up a notch and made it a “boy-girl” thing. Now, not only were we probably not going to get paired up with our best friend, but we weren’t even going to be working with the same species; we’re talking about second-grade boys here, they were all aliens who had cooties, obviously.

         Upon announcing the unexpected twist, my little heart sank and there was a buzz of uncomfortable controversy bouncing around from desk cluster to desk cluster. Some of us were more anxious than others. Hannah Berger, for instance, was thrilled at the thought of working with a boy. She was as much of a slut as any second grader could be, which meant that she wore body glitter and those choker necklaces that are meant to look like tattoos.

         As Hannah’s sparkly little eyes surveyed the room and assessed her partner options excitedly, others were just barely holding down their lunch. The ghostly pale, squeaky-voiced Michael Shuster sat at his desk and stared at his pencil, repeatedly swallowing the huge gulp that kept forming in his throat. He didn’t know how to talk to girls. (As the years progressed, it became clear that he really didn’t know how to talk to anyone at all; not girls, not boys, not even the intrusively friendly bus driver.) But, the state of clamminess and sweaty palms that embodied him that day in second grade was representative of how the majority of the class felt: nauseous and unprepared.

         There I was, seven years old, being thrown into a world of the unknown: learning about the properties of water alongside a boy, and to top it off, we had to make a poster to present to the class. It’s projects like these that made me wish I could call out sick from school for at least a few weeks. The lucky kids always got mono or strep throat, which guaranteed them a solid month off with no major academic penalties. Of course, being sick would be the major downside to the whole plan, but at age seven all I could think about was how many times in a row I could watch The Lion King and recite every word, beginning to end. Mono seemed completely worth it.

         Sitting in class, I was restless at my desk, watching the clock and remembering how glad I was that Mrs. Miller would be giving us a brief snack break, allowing me to gather myself and convene with my best friend, Samantha, to come up with some sort of plan. I wasn’t even thinking about the peanut butter celery sticks that my Mom had packed for me that morning- which, I had been daydreaming about since the bus pulled up to the school hours earlier. But there was no time to eat; Sam and I needed to brainstorm, and fast.

         At that stage in our lives, Samantha and I were significantly unfamiliar with how to handle our male classmates. We were experts when it came to the Rugrats and the Spice Girls, but boys were a foreign territory, and so the plan was born out of our instinct to repel the boys in our class, eliminating them as a concern entirely.

         The first step was wardrobe. Our daily ensembles consisted of oversized, fleece sweatshirts and boldly patterned leggings. We were convinced that these getups would make the boys think twice before giving us any trouble.

         Our crack-head clothing choices were initially instituted in order to stay clear of one second-grade boy in particular: Ross Klein. Out of all the boys in our class, Samantha and I decided that Ross was the most threatening and we were to avoid him at all costs. (Of course this probably meant that we had a crush on him, something our seven-year-old selves would deny emphatically.) Regardless of our reasoning, Ross Klein was our “code red” in the world of girl-boy interaction and being partnered up with him was like being assigned a 16-measure vocal solo in the spring chorus recital that you never signed up for. It was intimidating, anxiety-provoking, and an almost guaranteed way to embarrass yourself.

         After snack break ended, we were left with the dizzying reality that it was time to return to our seats and await our doomed, second-grade destiny. My throat was closing up, my upper lip was dotted with sweat and I felt like collapsing into a helpless ball of mush that just wanted her Mommy. But, as Mrs. Miller started to write down the topic choices on the board, it became clear that ‘crying for Mommy’ wasn’t an option.

         “Dew”, however, was an option. I stared at the word, listed amongst others such as “Hail”, “Hurricane”, “Blizzard”, all words I had heard before. But, “Dew” was new.  I was sure Mrs. Miller had made a mistake. Writing a word on the board that was phonetically reminiscent of a certain, staple, potty-humor term (doo, doodie, doodoo, etc.) was completely out of character for her. Did she not know that the whole class could see that she was writing about poop on the board? Had she forgotten the maturity level of the second grade?

         At age seven all I needed to hear was the sound “doo” to know for certain that I could not (I would not) be stuck doing my project on such a strange topic. “Doo,” I repeated to myself under my breath, followed with a furrowed brow and a nervous laugh. Yea, I was not doing my project on dew. Not happening.

         That time had finally come and we were being partnered off, boy-girl style, each pair given a huge poster board and a topic, expected to get to it- whatever it was. Mrs. Miller started the slow reveal, really tasting the names in her mouth as the class all clung to the edges of their seats.

         “Hannah, Eric, Tsunami.” Hannah shoots a mischievous look towards Eric. The entire class watches as he responds with a goofy, half smile. 

         “Sarah, David, Avalanche.” Heads turned to see the look on Sarah’s face, then again to see the look on David’s. The tension in the room was high and my patience was low.

         “Samantha, Eli, Blizzard.” I looked at Sam, who seemed relieved. Eli was a cool kid, and I had a Beanie Baby named Blizzard, so there’s that. It couldn’t be that bad if there was Beanie Baby to reference.

         As she continued calling out names, the list of topics got shorter, as did my potential partner-possibilities. With my fingers crossed as tight as they could go, and my eyes tightly shut in fear, all I could do in that moment was pray. Please don’t let me be partnered with Ross. Please don’t let me get Dew. Please no Ross. Please no Dew. No Ross. No Dew. No Ross. No Dew.

         And then it happened. Mrs. Miller introduced me to the sadistic power of irony with the next three words that came out of her mouth: “Gabi, Ross, Dew.” And just like that my world came to a crashing halt, my stomach jumped into my throat, and I began to question the clarity with which I had been praying. Everything I specifically wanted to avoid was exactly what I had to face head on. In the twisted world of the group project, I fell victim to irony and the confusion it inspires regarding personal faith. Who was I even praying to up there?

         As the class shuffled around and everyone sat with their partners all I could do was hear the throbbing of my heart and the shortness of my breath. Samantha shot me a look of sympathy, one that said, It’s been fun being best friends, Gab. I hope you survive Ross. I’m so sorry. Also, what’s dew?

         I looked back at her with my chubby red cheeks that said, I have no idea what dew is! I can’t work with Ross! Why do all the teachers hate me? You’re so lucky, can we switch? Please, Samantha! I can’t do this! Help a sister out!

         But, our silent exchange was cut short as I was exiled from my desk, courtesy of Mrs. Miller’s teaching assistant, Miss Amanda. “C’mon Gabriela, go find your partner.” She made it sound so easy, as if I could just get up and go sit with Ross in a painful silence with the word dew hanging over us, waiting to be addressed. But, I was an obedient little second grader and I stared at Miss Amanda with big eyes full of fear as I got up and gathered my things, as if I was just sentenced to walk the plank and fall into a group of hungry crocodiles.

         With my notebook clutched close to my chest, I slowly made my way to the desk cluster where Ross was sitting, awaiting his fate dewy fate. He looked about as enthused as a sick child facing a spoonful of nasty cough medicine, me being the cough medicine that he couldn’t bare to swallow. So I sat down, I avoided eye contact, and I stayed quiet while my head wouldn’t shut up. My mind spun with worry, anxiety spiraling like a mental tornado ready to destroy everything in its path.

         “So, what’s dew exactly?” asked Ross, breaking the ice like a pickaxe. He looked at me with anticipation, hoping I knew more about dew than he did. But, I knew nothing about dew. I knew nothing about dew and it turns out I really knew nothing about Ross. Sure, he was scary in the typical way that a second grader fears the opposite sex, but otherwise he seemed tolerable. He wasn’t plotting a mean joke on me involving pig’s blood and a prom dress. He wasn’t calling me fat, at least not aloud. He was simply wondering what the hell dew was and how we were supposed to draw it on a poster.

          Ross and I got through the project with minimal, verbal acknowledgement and a silent understanding that we were communicating strictly for the purposes of the poster, not to be mistaken for some sort deliberate, second-grade, social interaction in which we were willingly participating. Both of us were also painfully aware of the fact that we got stuck with the lamest of all the project topics: dew.

         Standing in front of the class, holding a poster with a poorly colored illustration of a bathroom sink and a dew-covered mirror, the meaning of irony hit me hard. Not only did we learn about dew, but we also discovered life’s tendency to ignore personal prayers and proceed with ironic gusto, granting wishes in reverse and churning stomachs around the world. Sure, the slap in the face hurt like hell, but the reality was that I would survive. The sting passes and life goes on.

         Gabi. Ross. Dew. Those three words hit me like daggers, three stabs that knocked the breath out of my chest and the faith in prayer out of my mind. But, in its place, those three words left me with a taste of reality, the bittersweet flavor of life’s surprises, which I learned, don’t always have to be so scary.

"Even in humans, psychologists are discovering that women react to some unconscious cues, cues they are unaware of, when responding favorably, or not, to men. In animals, female choice should be seen simply as an innate, evolved response to an indicative secondary sexual cue presented by the male."

-An Introduction to Biological Evolution, page 139

The ultimate goal of most living species is to ensure the continuation of their population. This basic biological fact has been the basis of many scientific theories, including Darwin’s ‘Survival of the Fittest’ and ‘Natural Selection’. Most animals have an instinctual desire to protect their young and make way for future generations. This animalistic priority has held true throughout the history of life, remaining one of the most fundamental, primitive goals.

The concept is simple enough to achieve. A male and female meet, decide to reproduce, and nourish their young until they can start the process all over again. Ostensibly, it’s very cut and dry. An ideal scenario might go like this:

Male: “I want to impregnate you. Let's mate.” 

Female: “You look like you have good genes in your sperm. Yea, let's.”

Male: “Wonderful. Our children will live strong, healthy lives and reproduce like bunnies.”

Female: “Great, it’s a deal. Fertilize me, baby.”

END SCENE.

However, due to the unfortunate, complex nervous systems of our species (Homo sapiens), a mess of feelings get in the way: confusion, love, anger, excitement, sadness, jealousy, pride, etc. The spectrum of human emotion is endless, as is our craving to find meaning in everything. So, the volcano that is the human psyche has erupted into an exhausting nightmare of hidden subtext and agonizing connotation. A situation of a common human being, living in the 21st century, might go something like this:

(dramatization)

Guy: “Yoo.”

Girl: “Um, Hi!”

Guy: “You're cute.”

Girl: “Thanks!”

Guy: “I like you.”

Girl: *whispers to herself* “OMG.” 

Guy: “Maybe you want to hang out.”

Girl: “Yea, I'd like that!”

Of course, the conversation would vary according to the male and female's respective personalities. (Another result of the wondrous complex nervous system: personality). The female may be the initiator, the male may be the prey, but the situation above seems like a fair representation of our reality, or mine at least.

The dialogue seems quite simple and straight forward, yes? 

NO. Every single word is overflowing with subtext and emotion. Here is the situation shown again, but this time with the true meaning:

Guy: “Yo.” (I'd like to tap that)

Girl: “Um, Hi!” (shit a really cute guy is talking to me! I wonder if he likes me for my personality...he must, I mean it couldn't be for my appearance; I'm fat and ugly. What the-- is he staring at my boobs? Look alive girls!)

Guy: “You're cute.” (She's okay, but if I don't say hott, she might think I'm not shallow; it’s my only shot at getting any [action].)

Girl: “Thanks!” (Awww, he didn't say hott. He must not be shallow. A nice, decent guy likes me—eww, should I be alarmed? I only like BAMFS. (bad-ass motha- f***ers) Whatever, take what you can get you ugly, fatso. Girls, look alive! Don't sag. For God's sake you're only [insert age].)

Guy: “I like you.” (Ehh, I like her a little. I'd never actually go out with her, but if I tell her I like her, then maybe she'll go to [insert base] with me tonight. I'm so smooth. You're the bomb [referring to self] my main man...dude...bro...bra.)

Girl: *whispers to herself* “OMG!” (Shit. Did I just whisper to myself? I'm such a f***ing loser. I really like this guy. He's cute, funny, smart and nice to me. There must be something wrong with him. SHUT UP. F***, am I bipolar? NOT THE TIME for questioning your mental stability. FOCUS.)

Guy: “Maybe you want to hang out.” (How about I lure her into my room, use my charm to get us laying down, and get to the business.)

Girl: “Yea, I'd like that!” (Holy shit. He wants me. I love him. I hope he likes me.) CUE VULNERABILITY.

And, so goes the evolution of the human relationship. If we could only do it like the other mammals--- (as the song by Bloodhound Gang goes: "You and me baby ain't nothing but mammals, so let's do it like they do on the Discovery channel.”)

The moral of this expert scientific account on human interaction isn't that the male beings of the species are jerks, because girls can be jerks too; it’s not a matter of girls rule and boys drool. The true conclusion is that the human species is too complex for its own good.

Natural selection has caused our brains to develop, and the repercussions are fatal; suicide rates are up, divorce rates are up, and the amount of broken hearts is too high a number to count. Natural selection has slowly affected the evolution of the mind. We have exceeded the mentality of animals and entered into a world with emotion and thought. Our minds have developed into the complex entities they are now, and we are left in a state of chaos and depression.

Or maybe it's just me.

Maybe we need to take the reins of our potentially omnipotent minds and eliminate the impact of emotion. Maybe we should all be hunters and gatherers forced to fend for ourselves without having to think about money, or status, or even the pursuit of happiness. Maybe it doesn't have to be as complicated as all that. Or, maybe we should all buy an endless supply of tequila and weed.

The end. 

I don’t get it: this whole life thing, living, being alive; this dizzying concept of living creatures inhabiting this massive, spherically shaped ball that floats around in a mysterious, dark space of infinite nothingness. We are nothing more than tiny specs that have been thrown into this immeasurable, vast darkness that has no beginning and no end.

Beginnings make me anxious and endings turn my stomach, but the inability to measure something altogether causes an uneasy sense of helplessness in my gut that I can’t soothe. The restless confusion brought on by the notion of infinity can drive a person crazy.

Even the supposed comfort of uncertainty has its limits. Not knowing what I’m going to wear tomorrow is fine; I can handle that. I can even subscribe to the whole weather thing; leaving the fate of my brown, suede boots in the hands of giant globs in the sky that can decide to release excess water vapor at their leisure. I never know when I’ll need an umbrella or an extra sweater, especially considering the giant shithole in the ozone layer.

It’s all a giant pain in the ass, but I can handle it. However, the vastness of space is an entirely different dubiety to wrap my tired mind around. Think about it: when you become overwhelmed with the frightening possibilities of the unknown, you escape. I usually find refuge in my room, or my car, maybe under a huge rock somewhere. The thing about infinity is that there’s no escaping it. It is everywhere and it is everything. Getting a sense of perspective can usually assuage petty uncertainties. “Think of the big picture”, some idiot will say. But, that’s precisely the problem: the big picture. The “big picture” is that we’re stuck.

It’s a strange type of claustrophobia to feel trapped in infinity, the most colossal of spaces. Maybe it’s reverse claustrophobia: Ortsualcophobia; the technical term (not really).

This sick jigsaw puzzle of existence has been stumping me since day one. I mean that’s when it all starts isn’t it? Suddenly you are a tiny, shriveled up little nugget being man-handled by giants in green gowns who are passing you around like a football. I’m not a complete smartass who thinks she remembers the day she was born, but I’m fairly sure that if babies were immediately rushed from the delivery room into a tell-all interview with Barbara Walters, they would unanimously reveal that the process of being born is just as horrifying for the baby as it is for anyone watching it happen.

I’m angry enough at the asshole who thought it was a good idea to show “The Miracle of Life” in seventh grade, but where do I direct the anger I have from actually having to be a part of it however many years ago. At some point, everyone was that little “miracle” that tested the gag reflexes of middle school students around the world. Everyone was once forced out of the peaceful, warm safe haven that they grew to love for 9 months, only to be held in the middle of a giant room, surrounded by green ninjas who are all too busy smiling and crying to notice that the room is freezing and there are blinding, bright lights shining in your eyes. There’s nothing worse than being naked and not having sunglasses; nothing.

So, a baby has to wonder: what the hell is going on? But, the thing is, the answer isn’t that easy. I’ve spent countless hours trying to make sense of it all. Maybe this is all somebody’s dream and we’re just figments of their imagination. Maybe we’re all just characters in a story being told in another universe. Maybe God is just a student in an astronomy course who had to make a 3D model of the solar system, and we’re just a part of his assignment in a class full of similar projects which all serve as different universes.  I think about the meaning of it all, hoping to find some shred of logic that will lead me to understand what I’m doing here. Often, my friend Sabina and I will get really high, open a box of double-stuffed Oreo’s, and write down our theories in hopes that when we sober up the next day we’ll be able to make sense of it and finally solve the mystery of life. 

Whatever it may be, I always come to the same conclusion: no one will ever really know for sure. After years of religious day school, and reading different philosophies, and studying biological and evolutionary science, it all seems sort of trivial.

I was always comforted by the possibility of endless adventure and excitement that would come in the search for this abstract answer to life. But, I’m afraid I’ve reached the truth earlier than I wanted. The truth is that there is no answer, and no matter how hard I try to find one and attempt to make sense of this world, I’ll never reach a concrete explanation. Life is what’s happening right now. We are here for a small patch of time and no matter how twisted the whole concept is, it remains our reality. We live, we die, and that’s all that is certain. We eat and sleep in the middle, maybe laugh a bit here and there, shed some tears, get some bruises, and then we go just as suddenly as we came.

It’s kind of a downer.

But, I guess it all depends on if your glass is half empty or half full. Mine, for instance, has been pretty empty for a long time. I don’t want it to be. I’ve asked the waitress on multiple occasions to come and pour me more water, but my glass is still bone dry. Is it really my fault if this place has bad service? I’ve filed my complaints on the little comment cards given out to each table, but there’s still nothing in my glass, it’s empty. I guess I should really just get up and fill the damn glass myself.

Pessimism is exhausting. However, I can’t really imagine life without it. Am I supposed to walk around living in complete bliss and ignore all of the dark truths that the world is drowning in? If happiness means being stupid, I I don’t think I can do it. Stupidity is a common trigger of my negativity. 

Just yesterday I was behind these two girls who spent 10 minutes reassuring each other of how thin they were. “You’re so skinny, omigod,” one would say.

“Shut up, no I’m not, you are. I eat so much,” her friend would answer.

“Shut up. I eat so much. It just shows on me. You’re so thin.”

“Shut up. Thanks.”

And so on. To me, they both looked emaciated, and I’m pretty confident in saying that I probably ate more for breakfast than either of them had in days. 

The point is, if being happy means walking around comparing jean sizes and looking like a character from a Tim Burton movie, then I want nothing to do with it. So, maybe I’m a downer. However, my name isn’t Debbie, so you’ll have to come up with some other clever alliteration.

Negative words beginning with the letter “G”: gloomy, gray, grimy (although I’d prefer to avoid a nickname involving the word ‘grimy’), grim, glib, ghostly, goblin, gingerbread, grasshopper, gum, golf, garbage man, garage sale, garlic bread. Take your pick. I won’t respond to it, but in the event that Debbie Downer challenges me to some sort of “who-is-more-cynical?” competition, I’m going to need a stage name.

These are the types of things I think about everyday...

But, I didn’t say any of that. I just sat there.

“Well, we’re going to have to stop for today, our time is up,” said Dr. Bazlin, “maybe next week you’ll feel like talking.”

“Okay. Sorry,” was all I could mumble.

“No need to be sorry. Sometimes people have trouble putting their thoughts into words, that’s what you’re here for. Next week at the same time?”

“Sure.”

Putting it into words wasn’t the problem. It's what comes after that: the powerless, defeated look that people had given me so many times. Once I put it into words, my anxiety is only justified further with the sharp truth: there are no real answers, are there?