Fuck It, and Other Forms of Inconquerable Optimism

Some days I wake up, usually around three in the afternoon, and think “Oh, fuck. One of those days. At what point would it seem socially acceptable for me to take a nap?” Usually the answer is either “Never” or “9:30.” I once had a therapist (oh God, how gross that looks written out) lean forward during a session, after I had finally loosed the great floodgates of disappointment and listed out all the things that were bugging me at the moment, and look at me, after an extended uncomfortable pause, with the earnest, faux-warm (faurm?) gaze only professionals are capable of and say “You know, sometimes, the best thing to do is just go to sleep.” Yeesh! I mean, really! Although, to be fair, I guess she was sort of on the right track because on some days (days like today), when things feel weirdly dim and everything seems hard to stomach for both no reason at all and every reason fathomable, I do want to “just go to sleep.” Preferably for about a decade. Paycheck earned, madam!



I think days like this day, those days, are familiar to everyone on the planet. You open your eyes and can tell immediately, in the lean of the calendar on your wall or the way even the news' anchor's hair looks mussed, that things just aren't going to go the way you'd like. It's the sort of feeling that suggests its best to stay indoors and avoid open flame. If you funnel any liquids from one container to another, you're likely to wind up with a spill. If you try to negotiate a peace agreement between two arguing friends, you're likely to end up somehow admitting that yeah, you think they're fat. It is, put simply, like finding a black fly. In your Chardonnay.



My Dad came up to me earlier offering an Oreo. Just an Oreo, a singular cookie, as a sort of silent gesture of encouragement. It was helpful, although I was full. I guess he could sense my foul mood. I'd imagine the first clue was when I let the pot of noodles I was making boil over about three times before finally bowling them up and eating silently in my room. So Dad offers me the Oreo and I say “Thank you,” and think “Eh, fuck it.” I'm prone to moping, and, well, fuck it. I've grown accustomed to my cases of these days and I usually end up just sort of fucking it and doing something else. Quietly. I like to make lists, too. Yes, lists. When I'm feeling down in the dumps or—whatever, I make lists of things I like. Nice things. Like red-flavored things. Popsicles, ring pops, packets of Kool-Aid, anything with that special bite that may be named cherry or strawberry or watermelon but in reality is just vaguely—red-flavored. I like those things. I also like going to the grocery store at night, and songs that sound fun and jingly but whose lyrics are unmistakably sad. There are lots of little things I like; meeting strangers through their dogs and tacky old jewelry and cleaning the bathroom. Yes, cleaning the bathroom. I like that. I like making people take me for drives and leaning out the window like a Labrador, just to feel the air and I like the way, when you look at someone when they're not thinking, you can easily imagine the little kid they once were. I like the entire, seven-minute video for Mariah Carey's “Honey.” I like taking naps. And the rest? Well, fuck it for now.