Doctors' office waiting rooms: Portals to the underworld??

So, I'm aware that I haven't been as dedicated to my blog as I should be and I wanted to dedicate this post to apologize and explaining to my loyal readers why I've taken such a lengthy break. I have been stuck for what seems like an eternity in what can only be described as the worse place on the face of the earth. 

Doctors office waiting rooms. 

Between pick-up duty for my grandparents and time spent waiting for optometrists I've logged in more hours than I can count in these terrible little transitional rooms. Enough time that I've been able to contemplate and hypothesize what the areas are really all about. They're clearly meant to be acclimate souls to the tortures of Hades. 

I don't understand how else to explain how so many evil things could be concentrated in one tiny area. Sick people spewing their germs around the enclosed room with every cough or sneeze. An endless supply of magazines; all ending in "Fancy" (Dog Fancy, Bird Fancy, Horse Fancy, Cat Fancy. Seriously? Seriously there are people who need new literature about birds every other month?) Receptionists that may as well be Beelzebub himself with their sneering looks, hauty attitudes and sheer distaste for humanity (not to mention the horns peeking through their crunchy permed curls). I mean, it just makes sense that waiting rooms are in actuality entrances to the fires of hell. I don't know how else to explain it. 

The Stop and Chat

I had a Larry David moment at the grocery store today.

As I was walking down the aisles I briefly glanced my friend's mother (an unbelievably chatty and all around terrible woman to run into) as I was INNOCENTLY doing my shopping. My heart was paralyzed for a minute as my blood ran cold in my veins. As far as I was concerned I was left with only two options; I could a) run at a breakneck pace to the disposable razors and attempt to slit my wrist or b) slink around the store, attempting to hide behind pyramids of canned goods, contorting myself into shelves between toilet paper and window cleaner. There was simply no way I could put myself through the brain-numbing torture that is five minutes of small talk. Sure, that would have been the mature, "right" thing to do. I just. I just couldn't. I just couldn't put myself through it. 

I was in that grocery store nearly forty-five minutes longer than I needed to be. It was a nerve-wracking 3/4 of an hour punctuated by flashes of fear when I spotted the target, but I considered it a victory. A victory, that is, until I recounted the triumph to my family. Unbelievably, they considered my feat a 'waste of time' and 'terrible way to treat a person'. Yes, hiding may have taken longer than actually speaking to the woman and yes, I guess it was a little rude, but. I mean. It HAD to be done. No?

Brilliant Idea

I was at the nursing home today, of course, as it's one of my favorite haunts and my place of employment when I had an AMAZING idea. I was listening to entertaining chit-chat amongst the residents (peppered with curse words and grunts) while being hit on by the umpteenth horny old man (who literally attempt to seduce everyone without breasts sagging to their feet...and sometimes them too...); a normal day at the office. After witnessing an extended and heated conversation between a physical therapist and a particularly belligerent old woman REFUSING to put on her special anti-slip socks (apparently they were a fashion faux-pas?) I realized that this was probably the most fascinating place on earth. Just as the woman began screeching at an ear-splitting volume it clicked in my mind how to relay this amusing situation to the average American household: reality television. 

(I suppose you could just attempt to get people to visit their g-mas and g-pas in the old folk homes, but really, I want to be a tad more realistic. We are a lazy people, it's just an accepted fact we must work with rather than against.)

As far as the reality t.v. angle, I mean, I'm no stranger to sitcom writing, and I suppose you could attempt to write plots based on these happenings, but why do the work when it's already done for you? Take the path of least resistance. Nursing homes are rife with drama (whether they actually exists or are created by the workings of dementia on a seasoned mind), love connections (though, admittedly, many involved in them have no idea), and no shortage of explosive personalities. Touching, thought provoking, and, most importantly, hilarious. 

I don't know why it hasn't been attempted before. 

If any television executives happen to be interested (and, I mean, don't wait to respond guys...I'm expecting a lot of buzz on this one), I'd love to make this happen. (This has the potential of being another Forest-Stone gold mine, a ratings baby)

Fear

I'm operating under the assumption that it's a healthy human reaction and response to everyday life. The new millennium, as far as I'm concerned, is nothing but a hectic precursor to the apocalypse. 

As I was studying my skinned knee earlier today, petrified but also positive that it would become infected with gangrene and either fall off or need to be amputated, I realized that I live my life in a constant state of fear. When I walk through the aisles of my local grocery store, I'm not thinking about the delicious treats I could be purchasing but rather the botulism I'm likely to get from any one of the canned goods I buy. While attempting to take a leisurely walk through my suburban neighborhood I'm not thinking about the quaintness of the surrounding houses; no I'm dwelling on the possibility that I could at any point be attacked by a feral cat or rabid dog, or tragically killed by a reckless driver. 

Global warming, nuclear fallout, cannibals, the threat of paralysis, animals in human clothing,  the idea that the second amendment might someday be overturned; it's a wonder that I'm a fully functioning human being and not curled into the fetal position in light of all my fear and anxiety. 

Instead of considering terror, panic, and nerves a harbinger of a heart attack or nervous breakdown (which is what people around me constantly and irritatingly insist) or a reason to shut myself into a room and never venture into society again, I view them as a wonderful way of keeping me relentlessly aware of the world and dangers around me. I have a leg up on most of the population; I suspect what many are simply to comfortable to allow themselves to think about. 

I urge you all to be more fearful of your surroundings; I assure you it'll be better than any security system you could ever purchase. Consider 'comfortable' and 'happy' akin to 'complacent' and 'ignorant.' Sober advice. Consider it. Live by it.  

What does it mean to be a 'gangsta'?

Is it an influence from ones' surroundings? Is it a state entered because of one's actions? Is it simply a state of mind? 

If it is a state of mind, does this mean that can anyone be a gangsta? If so, does that not ruin the elite, secretive, 'hard' state that is ganstadom? Is it a case of 'I think, therefore I am'? 

Questions to ponder, my friend. I know I will. Ponder, that is. (Is that gangsta? Is it gangsta to ponder? I'm just not sure of anything anymore.)

Hello World.

Monocles. Mustaches. A classic pairing that seems to withstand time itself. 

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Drop in often and you'll soon find yourself livening up a party with fascinating conversation starters, stretching your brain muscles with mind-boggling facts and stories, and, of course, learning the best ways to care and groom your facial hair and magnify your literature.

Be prepared, dear friends, for your very lives to change. Welcome. You surely won't regret this.