My typical weekend plans consist of, "I don't know," and, "Whatever you wanna do." The days ultimately get filled with fine dining, fine friends and many glasses of fine, mind-numbing wine. It is during these states of drunken euphoria that I make plans of what my next incarnation will be. Let's see. . . maybe I should be the host of some zany game show involving animal bloopers and censored explicatives; or perhaps I'll grow the world's longest toenails and compose xylophone music for autistic kids. There are so many options, and all of them equally viable.
The following morning, after consuming multiple Tylenol and a coffee the size of my appendix, I began my game show host / toenail growing education. I watch the Discovery Channel and surf the Internet for viable information of how to become the new me. After a few gruelling hours of point and click data I decide it's time to find a different version of self -- one that doesn't involve so much work. So I down a muscle relaxer with a martini and slowly realize that my life has become a series of distractions to cover the painful realization that I am just another human who will live and die and not much else. What is it with this obsessive drive to be something other than what we are? Is it a product of nature, or a deeply embedded cultural phenomena? What is so wrong with just being ourselves?
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