Tuesday, October 25, 2005
Sappy Nostalgia
I received easily the worst "forward" email in my history of receiving forwards at work the other day. It is so bad, dear readers, that I felt I just must share it with you and then take the podium to discuss just why it is so utterly unbearable -- truly embarrassing just to read through. I apologize in advance if you blush of shame for the writer:
I have decided I would like to accept the responsibilities of an 8 year-old again.
I want to go to McDonald's and think that it's a four-star restaurant.
I want to sail sticks across a fresh mud puddle.
I want to see who can blow the biggest bubble.
I want to think M&M's are better than money because you can eat them.
I want to drink Kool-Aid,and eat lemonheads with my friends.
I don't want to change clothes because I got a little dirty.
I want to enjoy everyday like its summer vacation.
I want to return to a time when life was simple.
When all you knew were colors, multiplication tables, and TV show theme songs, but that didn't bother you, because you didn't know what you didn't know and you didn't care. All you knew was to be happy because you were blissfully unaware of all the things that should make you worried or upset.
I want to think the world is fair. That everyone is honest and good.
I want to believe that anything is possible.
I want to be oblivious to the complexities of life and be overly excited by the little things again, like a new hot wheel. I want to live simple again.
I don't want my day to consist of computer crashes, mountains of paperwork, depressing news, how to survive more illness, and loss of loved ones.
I want to believe in the power of smiles, hugs, a kind word, truth, justice, peace, dreams, the imagination and mankind.
I want to be in the roller derby and actually believe The Three Stooges are real.
So...here's my checkbook and my car-keys, my credit card bills and my RRSP statements, my pager, my Cell Phone, my palm pilot, my fax machine and my DVD player, and last but not least my mortgage book. I am officially resigning from adulthood. And if you want to discuss this further, you'll have to catch me first cause..."TAG YOU'RE IT AND YOU HAVE COOTIES"
I finished reading the above drivel, and thought-- no, I didn't really think anything at first. At first, I got up from my seat to see if the guy who sent it was still in the office. I just had to know. Kind of a gut -- what the fuck? -- reaction. No luck. I could only throw up my arms and say, "Goddamn."
What utter despair motivates such irrational whining? Doesn't the writer know that he - he, himself and him -- made the decisions to grow up, become an adult, get a job, buy that DVD player, and move on from multiplication tables and the Three Stooges? Who is really to blame here? This is someone who MUST be a fan of The Breakfast Club, a movie in which all the teenagers, after bitching about each other for 70 minutes or so, decide . . . "It's ALL our parents' fault." Not exactly a landmark picture when it comes to personal responsibility.
The reason why I think anyone who gets sentimental over shit like this should be taken out back and shot is it's untruthful. It's a schlocky, nostalgic look back at childhood . . . as if it were some magical, blissful period of pure joy. We all know that's crap. (At least I thought we all did.) Childhood's just as hard as adulthood, and any idiot stupid enough to yearn to get back to that era ought to -- just because justice is such a beautiful concept -- actually be sent back to his or her childhood to relive the loss of innocence.
I have decided I would like to accept the responsibilities of an 8 year-old again.
I want to go to McDonald's and think that it's a four-star restaurant.
I want to sail sticks across a fresh mud puddle.
I want to see who can blow the biggest bubble.
I want to think M&M's are better than money because you can eat them.
I want to drink Kool-Aid,and eat lemonheads with my friends.
I don't want to change clothes because I got a little dirty.
I want to enjoy everyday like its summer vacation.
I want to return to a time when life was simple.
When all you knew were colors, multiplication tables, and TV show theme songs, but that didn't bother you, because you didn't know what you didn't know and you didn't care. All you knew was to be happy because you were blissfully unaware of all the things that should make you worried or upset.
I want to think the world is fair. That everyone is honest and good.
I want to believe that anything is possible.
I want to be oblivious to the complexities of life and be overly excited by the little things again, like a new hot wheel. I want to live simple again.
I don't want my day to consist of computer crashes, mountains of paperwork, depressing news, how to survive more illness, and loss of loved ones.
I want to believe in the power of smiles, hugs, a kind word, truth, justice, peace, dreams, the imagination and mankind.
I want to be in the roller derby and actually believe The Three Stooges are real.
So...here's my checkbook and my car-keys, my credit card bills and my RRSP statements, my pager, my Cell Phone, my palm pilot, my fax machine and my DVD player, and last but not least my mortgage book. I am officially resigning from adulthood. And if you want to discuss this further, you'll have to catch me first cause..."TAG YOU'RE IT AND YOU HAVE COOTIES"
I finished reading the above drivel, and thought-- no, I didn't really think anything at first. At first, I got up from my seat to see if the guy who sent it was still in the office. I just had to know. Kind of a gut -- what the fuck? -- reaction. No luck. I could only throw up my arms and say, "Goddamn."
What utter despair motivates such irrational whining? Doesn't the writer know that he - he, himself and him -- made the decisions to grow up, become an adult, get a job, buy that DVD player, and move on from multiplication tables and the Three Stooges? Who is really to blame here? This is someone who MUST be a fan of The Breakfast Club, a movie in which all the teenagers, after bitching about each other for 70 minutes or so, decide . . . "It's ALL our parents' fault." Not exactly a landmark picture when it comes to personal responsibility.
The reason why I think anyone who gets sentimental over shit like this should be taken out back and shot is it's untruthful. It's a schlocky, nostalgic look back at childhood . . . as if it were some magical, blissful period of pure joy. We all know that's crap. (At least I thought we all did.) Childhood's just as hard as adulthood, and any idiot stupid enough to yearn to get back to that era ought to -- just because justice is such a beautiful concept -- actually be sent back to his or her childhood to relive the loss of innocence.
