Hold the Glimmer

Posts Tagged ‘bucket list

I’ve been on this health-ish kick lately (to further specify, I’m just trying not to inhale every single thing thrown in front of my freaking face.  I’m human.  I don’t know how to eat 7 million vegetables a day or say ‘no’ to a manhattan, but I am trying to be a better me), and have been falling in love with the gym.

I use to take a boot camp class that was incredible and changed my entire body and mind, but with being in the newsroom a zillion hours a week and holding down four jobs and a NEW INTERNSHIP (!!!!!! Just let me finish a few sentences without parentheses’ and we can discuss) my available hours to gym it up are weird.  But I love it! I’m lifting weights, sweating all over disgusting gym machines, and talking to trainers about supplements and stacks and UGHH it feels so good.  I see regulars and we do the “whatsup” nod to each other and I’m sure soon enough that we will all be best friends, drinking protein shakes at the park and laughing about our former fat selves … or maybe not. Whatever. A girl can dream, right?

While I’m loving the gym and their insane playlists (really, out of this world.  I’ve almost asked who makes them and if I can jump in to the rotation), I am 100% not in to the gym bathrooms.  Let me rephrase- I am 100% not in to the full on bush every single time I walk in to the locker rooms.  It’s bush central.  Lot’s of bush. Bush walking around, bush towel drying, bush SITTING ON THE ACTUAL BENCHES WHILE IT FINDS ITS CHONIES.  How. Why. STOP.

I’m so pro woman.  The pro-est of woman and god we are beautiful creatures, but can I just not see your bush?  Can you hide that thing?  I don’t care what you do with it, but can I just not have it in my face every time I walk in to the room?  I’d say I see a minimum of eight new bushes a week.  I’m averaging four gym trips a week and each one of those trips includes a stop in the locker room to lock up my oh-so-valuable purse (no value, quite honestly.  Less value than an empty wallet. It’s. sad.) and with every turn of the corner in that freaking room is a goddamn bush.

Maybe I’m the prude?  Maybe it’s just weird for me to walk around naked in a room full of women.  I’m actually starting to like my body and it still freaks me out that women of ALL SIZES AND SHAPES are so ok with theirs.

And, I’m insanely jealous.  To be able to feel so comfortable in your own skin … a girl can really dream.  I envy each and every one of those women, of all ages, that rips off their gym clothes and full frontal walks to the sinks to wash their hands. Naked. Totally accepting of their body.  One day, Tracy, one day …

On a brighter note- internship! I got one! It’s paid! It pays shit! But it pays!

Starting this summer, I will be working for an actual publication! I think this means I am actually fulfilling my dreams of writing and I am scared as shit but it’s beyond exciting. My boyfriend can attest that I’m almost always exhausted and I usually fall asleep within seventeen seconds of seeing him (he’s the greatest I SWEAR), but I’m the happiest I’ve ever been working my ass off to catch this dream. It’s all happening you guys; it’s all happening.

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…Goodnight Tracy
 
Welp.  The day of reckoning is upon us. In a mere 24 hours, I will be with Jesus.

Hahahahahahahahaahahah.

 Right. 

That guy wouldn’t pick me out of the “Who’s Going To Heaven” lineup even if it was between me and Charles Manson (Wow.  Shit. Just. Got. Real.)  I mean hell, I’m heading to Vegas this weekend solely to be with the sinners and celebrate our rise to power as all the good kids get dragged away.

-tangent-

Can we talk about how this is actually supposed to happen?  How do two hundred MILLION people miraculously disappear?  Do they all die a plague like death over a span of ninety minutes, getting bit by rats and popping boils?  Does one know they are chosen as they start self suffocating at 6pm (eastern folks, eastern.  That means 3pm pacific.  We good?)  Will chainsaws magically appear in the kitchen of a “chosen one” for their significant other to saw them in to bite sized Jesus baggage? What if all two hundred MILLION are dragged up to the clouds at the same time, while Joan Osborne’s “One of Us” screams through God’s loudspeakers?  I just…I need to know how this is physically happening.

-And, we’re back!

As Duke posted earlier, there will always be regrets.  Every person in my life knows I either hate them or love them (ya, start thinking about that one now..), so I have no regret in not including them in my list below (this is after all MY list.  Shouldn’t I have the final say who and what makes it on?). 

 

  • I never got to quit my job

(“OOOHHHHHHH! BIG regret you pansy ass!”- everyone who just read the first bullet point.)

Ya. I get it.  I’m wasting a spot on the elitist of lists. Seems like the most trivial of regrets to waste on such a noble scroll, but I’ve dreamed of that day for the last two years.  Remember when the “I quit” video of a hot chick with note cards spelling out the reasons she is quitting her job went viral?  All my coworkers gasped, my mom emailed me WHILE watching, begging me not to watch as she was afraid I would follow suit but in a less tasteful manner (she knows me so well..), and my newsfeed on Facebook was aflutter with commentary and reposting.   Personally, tears dropped with every single turn of a card as I was overcome with emotion.  She was so…thoughtful.  So…brave.  She was everything I ever wanted in a two week notice.  Granted, a week later, turns out awesome chick was just a fake (thanks again for crushing the dream that some people really do have balls in this world).  She still inspired me; and in a few days, I will 100% regret not shitting on my bosses desk, grabbing his hidden stash of 18yr scotch, throwing up the deuces, and screaming “fuck you corporate” as I exit the building.

  • I never got to eat a Big Mac

(please call the Un-American police as I have committed a crime….and then see sentiments from bullet point above and apply here as necessary)

I’ve never been a big fan of hamburgers.  As a child, I can remember inhaling hot dogs (literally, not figuratively) at family functions and BBQ’s, while Dad yelled that his burger wasn’t bleeding anymore and he could never eat such tainted meat.  Years later, I would come to find that my hot dog eating abilities would turn in to an obsession with seeing how many Dodger Dogs I could stuff in my purse and sneak out of the “All You Can Eat” section at Dodger Stadium (The record still stands at 22.  This is not a joke).  On the rare occasion my mom allowed her Mercedes to be seen in a drive-thru, I always ordered some form of chicken (yes, form.  I saw the other viral video of an unnamed restaurant mass producing their “nuggets”.  While the unfinished product would induce projectile vomiting from most, I immediately got in my car and drove to the nearest…rhymes with Shmick-Fonalds.  The same thing happened after watching “Super Size Me”.  I’m a marketing and advertiser’s dream.)  Regardless, I’ve heard wonderful things of this sandwich, special sauce and all, and do truly regret never being able to experience the joy that is Big Mac.

  • I never met Howard Stern

Oh, Howard, my hero.  I listen to you daily, religiously even. Your words, your reasoning, your undying devotion to becoming the king of all media have kept me on the edge of my seat during countless morning commutes and road trips. I know there are a multitude of reasons why we never crossed paths.  Mainly, I’m not an actress, porn star, author, tranny, athlete, comedian, game show host, willing to get naked on air or film (for free), but also because I live in Los Angeles.  I ponder what I would actually do standing face to face with my hero, but ultimately know I would stutter for words, pee my pants, and turn around in to a full paced sprint, hoping at the very least that the encounter makes it on his show.

  • I never really released my road rage

Maybe it’s just me (truer words have never been spoken), but every single time I get behind the wheel, it seems every horrible driver was notified via press release to get on the road and find me.  I’ve had my fair share of verbal confrontations (just because the window is up, doesn’t mean you can’t read my FUCK YOU lips).  I may be slightly overzealous with the only sign language I know as you cut me off at my exit on the freeway, but I’ve never stopped the car, stepped out of my vehicle and verbally… (or physically. I’ve been in one physical fight thus far in my life.  It started with ketchup and ended with me waking up in a police station with a fat lip, black eye, and no memory of how I got there. Baller.)… berated the asshole who almost made me spill my coffee.

Of all things I regret, I must admit that not focusing on my writing would top the list.  The poor regret didn’t even get a bullet point….(or a complete sentence…ugh)

So wherever you end up on Saturday, be it Hell, Heaven, or rehab, just know that life is one big regret. You either live or exist; but we all die.  Billy Joel and I can agree on one thing: “I’d rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints.  The sinners are much more fun…”

Maybe I’m off my hinges, but it seems like our generation is really into this concept of “no regrets.”  It’s a nice idea – covering up the fact that certain events in your life have left you emotionally and physically scarred by insisting they made you the person you are today, and that you’re happy with who that person is.  It’s good to lie to other people about your internal satisfaction, for the same reason the Joker took a knife to his mouth – because a smile tells the world everything is okay.  But let’s cut the shit, because the clock is ticking and there’s a heck of a lot we missed out on.  We missed our big chance to ask Susie Peppercorn to the 8th grade formal.  We wish we had been more trusting of the nice guy who promised us candy in his van around the corner (Jolly Ranchers would have been worth the risk, in retrospect).  We should have thought of a game plan instead of letting the words flow out of our mouth like syrup mixed with desperation when we talked to that pretty blond at the bar last Friday.  I’m just being straight up – the magic book has scientifically proven that the world is ending in a few days.  So we can either get busy living, or get busy wishing we had lived more.  Since I still can’t bring myself to believe in magic – I’m going to pour myself a drink, and get busy regretting all the stuff I didn’t do with this life…

  • I didn’t get to escape from prison.  Why would I want to go to prison?  Come on, didn’t you ever watch OZ?  It’s awesome.  Rick Fox was on it.  And yes, I realize one has to be arrested, tried, and convicted before such a possibility can arise – and I certainly have no regret in failing to participate in these endeavors (although in all honestly, I’ve come closer than I’d like to admit).  I just always wanted to start a riot in the mess hall to create a diversion, dig through a concrete wall with a rock hammer, crawl through grinding turbines of power generators, sneak up on guards and stealthily break their necks with my bare hands, climb on the roof of a compound with flood lights searching as the helicopter flies in through darkness just in time for me to grab its dangling ladder, and pull myself to safety with machine gun bullets whizzing past my head.  It might be the claustrophobia caused by my crackerjack box of a cubicle that has me jonesing for an epic jailbreak, or perhaps I’ve seen Shawshank Redemption one too many times.  But for once, I would have liked to be the one who crawled through a river of shit and came out clean on the other side…
  • I regret not building that kick ass fort every kid dreams of.  I’m talking about a fort built of pillows and plywood, forged out of blankets and brawn.  Three stories of no-girls-allowed-big-boys-only fortliness, with a secret stash of playboys under a loose floorboard, a system of string-and-tin-can telephones connecting all the other forts in the neighborhood, trip wires surrounding the premises to warn us of approaching adults, a bar, pool table, jacuzzi, fly maids, a butler, a tricked out stage setup with automated light shows, huge plasma television, a kitchen with a chef, stripper p…  What?  Too much?  Hey, ask any guy – we all wanted one (as kids, and still today as adults), and if you were one of the lucky few who actually had it – I hope Jesus condemns you first.  You don’t deserve heaven, because you’ve already been there.    
  • I wish I had performed stand-up.  I think of comedians as class clowns who were never forced to grow up and get real jobs like the rest of us.  They live the dream, drunkenly offending and badgering their audience while occasionally sharing a gem or two about life – kind of like what we do here at HTG, but on stage… for money.  I’m not trying to say I’d be particularly good at it, because in truth I stumble over my words when struggling to make awkward conversation with the cashier at Vons (she’s only known me 20 years).  I guess for starters (is it late for starters?) I wish I had the nerve and comedic prowess to do it, but that’s neither here nor there.  It would have validated my existence on this Earth to be one of the few people to ever command a microphone and make people laugh, on purpose. 
  • I really wanted to hold a public office.  Even the city councilman from Bumfuck, AR gets his own parking spot and his name immortalized in some registry log for having voted to remove the stop light next to Art’s Barbershop on 6th Street.  It’s history, man, and I wanted to be a part of it – even a small one.  Getting elected to a public office validates your existence because lesser beings agree you’re more qualified to lead than they are (seriously, that’s what you’re saying by voting instead of running – if you think you can do better, you should).  Anyway, just like comedy, I’m not saying I’d be any good at it – but there’s just something appealing about wearing a power suit, and accepting briefcases full of money and free weekends in Laughlin as payment for allowing untreated waste from the local power plant to be rerouted through the city’s drinking water facility.  
  • I never got published!  I know it’s a pipe dream, but all I ever wanted was for someone to stumble across my facebook page, read my status and say, “give that man a book deal!”  I guess Shit Duke Says wasn’t as big a draw as I’d hoped.  And cocktail napkin musings aren’t taken too seriously, regardless of how nicely they’re bound together when shipped to Random House.  So, instead, I’ve kept my day job – sneaking over to our blog whenever nobody is looking (like right now, for instance) to put together wild gibberish with the intention of entertaining my fellow working men and women – who want, just as much as I, to creep out the window of reality and puff on the magical dragon of procrastination.  The intention was always to use this as a stepping stone – a practice ground to develop my skill (or lack, thereof) until it was worthy of sharing on a professional level; at which time I could execute my blogger-in-crime’s method of quitting with a bang, and move on with my rockstar writer lifestyle…  

But, that’s all in the past.  Like a spiteful bitch mother who blames her children for the loss of her dancer’s figure, I have nothing left but regrets and broken dreams.  “And now, the end is near, and so I face, the final curtain…”  Here’s hoping they read books in Hell.  Say goodnight Tracy.

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