This isn’t the “feel sorry for me or woe is me” ploy decorated with fancy words and a beat that unexpectedly invites thunderous applause. This is a cry for help or rather me crying while I selfishly beg you to watch.
So, I guess I am feeling sorry for myself while asking you to feel the same.
Here’s the thing, I was triggered by an image that sent me spiraling into the game of Remember the Time which is incidentally a hit song by Michael Jackson who died the year I was called to jury duty for the first time.
It was 2009, and I ended up being dismissed and once I stepped out into the sunlight — my phone without the “i” was lit up. It was the good old days when voice messages were still norm. My cousin excitedly broke the news and I proceeded to the subway like a regular New Yorker — on a mission to get home as soon as possible.
People think 2016 was the year of death. They think this because social media continues to curate the happenings around us as if it’s a reignited phenomenon. We buy into the element of disbelief because it makes us feel relevant and provides the opportunity to potentially elevate our numbers.
2009 wasn’t devoid of the shock value that you somehow regulate to “a very bad year”. Natasha Richardson, Patrick Swayze, Bea Arthur, Farrah Fawcett, Ted Kennedy, Walter Cronkite, Brittany Murphy and of course the King of Pop all perished in the same year.
When I consider the loss, I feel like shit.
Getting older is scary when you recognize almost everyone who leaves this earth. MJ is the one that hurts the most. And 8 years later I feel shitty when I see a White man dressed up as a corpse — portraying the most iconic entertainer that ever lived in a shitty film that came to be because we are officially embodying an era that tolerates a shitload of shit.
I feel shitty because Joe Biden was awarded the Presidential Medal of Honor with Distinction by President Obama in a ceremony that I watched despite the coin-sized tears blocking my view.
Why can’t I be dignified in my quest to say goodbye to yesterday?
I guess if I could just roll over to the next phase without acknowledging the nostalgic pull of yesteryears — especially when it was so good that you were convinced that the shitty days were behind you — I wouldn’t have the capacity to smell my own shit.
I can’t smell shit and that’s not good.
Once Donald Trump became the nightmare come true — my nostrils were blocked and so was my capacity to fuck right.
I haven’t had sex in awhile and I sweat all the time without stinking. I drink bottles of wine and stay sober, as I remain glued to 3 am spurts of Twitter wars. I have a life that is full.
Full of shit, which is exactly why I feel like shit.
I need my shit to stink so that I can get my period and release the toxins of present day karma. I want my shit to stink so that I can look back with a smile and a handshake — instead of the alarm that rings me into purposely wishing for the mornings I woke up with the smile.
I demand my shit to fill up and scare away users who try to enter but are driven away by the mightiness of the push that clogs and frees simultaneously. That feeling is priceless and manageable but the secret is to “Remember the Time” and lock it in so you never forget.
This is 2017. It won’t be pretty, but I will do my best to stink it up even more. It’s the only way to feel better — and Lord knows we need it.
Here’s to the shit!