In case you missed the Blog Hop backstory, you can read about it HERE.
The goal was to demonstrate that an episode of either Anxiety or Depression can in fact have an application: awesome, and sometimes downright hilarious fiction. Why not laugh at the quirks? Sitting around and crying into a bowl of chicken noodle soup never did shit for me personally. Everybody on the tour has had some kind of experience with either, and I don’t think it’s a coincidence that we also know how to write some kick ass fiction. Screw the label. Screw the stigma. At the source of it all is an active imagination, and a fabulous fictional tale awaits.
There are twelve writers ahead of me today, with each of them featuring the next part of this highly outlandish tale, and each post is around 200 words. Here’s a double shot of humor to go along with your morning espresso.
*kicks door down Chuck Norris-style*
The Most Outlandish Tale About Anxiety and Depression Ever Told
So anyways, I was meandering around the mall the other day, bags in hand, when I accidentally ran into this little elderly lady with white hair. We literally ran into each other. Clumsy me. We were both very apologetic toward each other after the bump-in however, and immediately went our separate ways.
A short while later, I accidentally bumped into the same elderly woman while in a different outlet store, only this time I was in a hurry, so I ran into her pretty hard – like, she was on one leg at some point and almost kicked me in the face as she was tipping backwards. The woman was less apologetic this time as she adjusted her knee-highs, but managed to eek out a half-grin before we again parted company.
I was starting to grow a little bit paranoid at this point, hoping that I wouldn’t accidentally run into her again. I started thinking about all these crazy what-if scenarios, and my head turned into a washing machine of bad thoughts…
What if she had a contagious skin infection? Maybe I should find a bathroom and scrub my arm? What if we keep bumping into each other for a reason? What’s the reason? Maybe she’s my soulmate? WHAT IF SHE WORKS FOR THE MOB AND SHE’S GONNA FUCKING KILL ME IF I BUMP INTO HER AGAIN?!
I had to get out, and quickly.
My fragile existence was now at stake and…
…THAT LEG WAS PRETTY HAIRY TOO NOW THAT I THINK ABOUT IT!
I dashed out the mall entrance door and threw my bags in a nearby bush…
Alright, so dig this, I’m going on a solo flight in a couple of days and I’m wiggin’ out.
I’m not all that big on flying, so I’ve been spending a lot time in the fetal position, whimpering like a sissy. I thought this might be sort of therapeutic for me, ya know? Write it out, Chowderhead, just write it out…
See, I’m not one of those people that’s afraid of crashing and dying. Honestly, I can think of much worse ways of expiring, like, for instance, being eaten by Hannibal Lecter. That would suck much more than a really brief, but really fun, roller coaster ride into the ocean.
Maybe I shouldn’t tempt fate…
What I am afraid of is all of the ridiculous scenarios that I create in my mind before I even set foot on the plane. Consequently, (I like that word) for the past week and a half I’ve been chain-smoking and building a collection of virtual self-help books, which now rivals the Library of Congress. At the moment, I’m working on a chapter in one of my anxiety miracle cure books called, “how to stop worrying about spraying projectile vomit all over the guy in the seat next to you.”
That would be one of those ridiculous scenarios. Not that it wouldn’t be possible I guess, but I haven’t tossed my cookies since I was an infant. That is of course if you don’t count that one time when I went to that Lebanese restaurant after a night of heavy drinking a few years back. But that was only like a violent vurp — not really full on hurl.
In any case, I realize now that not only do I have this longstanding phobia of just about everything, but a particularly bad phobia of all things vomit. God I hate that word. They actually have a name for it too: emetephobia. Gnarly!
Emetephobia, is what self-help guru’s refer to as an “Irrational fear.” I would have to agree, it is irrational, because chances are likely that I’m not really going to give two shits about the guy sitting next to me for a number of reasons:
1.). He might be an armrest-stealer.
2.) He might be a talker, which means kiss my Yatzy Addict Tournament goodbye.
3.) He could be a projectile vomiter, which would do absolutely nothing to help me rid myself of emetephobia.
I hope he’s just an armrest-stealer…
I’m rambling now. Shut up, man. Does this give me a free pass for slacking on reading everyone’s stuff? I’m acting like such an attention whore right now, I know. Please tell me to stick a sock in it and man up.
Oh, and I still don’t have a clue what I’m gonna name this blog, not that it’s all that important, but you know, The Artist Formerly Known as My Right to Bitch is gonna be a really hard one to plug to random strangers on the plane: “Hey, you should read my blog, it’s called…wait, do you have about five minutes to spare?”
Louisiana or bust…
- Vomiting Robot Pukes for Science (news.discovery.com)
- Larry the vomiting robot goes ‘viral’ while helping researchers study norovirus (thestar.com)
I’m not working much right now, so in an effort to conserve money I went out and bought myself a $550 iPad.
Yes, I know, Suze Orman fans, I have a low financial IQ just like every other normal American. To say that I’m remorseful about this decision would be an understatement, because right now I’m about three and a half miles from having to siphon my neighbor’s gas.
Money aside, I’m in another crisis situation. For the past 72 hours I’ve been on a Yatzy Addict binge.
If you’re not familiar with Yatzy Addict, it’s a knockoff app version of the board game, Yahtzee. I can’t stop playing it. I wake up in the middle of the night to take a leak, and one quick game turns into an all-night bender.
In the morning I look and feel like a junkie: bloodshot eyes, bags, pasty complexion, guilt-ridden… If I don’t start working soon I’m gonna have to check myself into some kind of a rehab clinic.
I don’t play casually, either. I play with intensity. And passion. I yell at the computer and swear a lot. According to my dense logic, the computer is out to get me. It has sent evil avatars from space to destroy me and turn me into a boiling mess.
And to think there was a time when I didn’t understand the allure of the tablet computer.
*Begin Dream Sequence*
3 years ago
Adam: “Not a chance! I’m perfectly happy with my stationary desktop computer that sounds like a microwave oven. What’s so useful about a portable computer that fits in the palm of your hand, and has a camera, and iTunes, and the internet, and that cool notepad thingy?”
*End Dream Sequence*
I underestimated the addictive qualities of this iPad.
Coming from someone who had hopes of weaning himself from the computer, the last thing I needed to do was run out and have one surgically attached to my fucking arm. Half the comments I replied to this week occurred while I was on the throne.
I shit you not. No pun.
So, if you came here looking for self-help tips to assist you in kicking your iPad addiction then try one of the following:
1.) Throw it out the window of a fast-moving vehicle, or
2.) Slam your fingers in a car door
Tip #2 is obviously the more cost-effective method. Duh.
Am I the only one suffering from iPad Addiction? Which app is your vice?
– See ya in rehab, Chowderheads \m?