Last week I had a brief encounter with death. I was standing at my kitchen counter slicing a recently purchased farmer’s market tomato. The kind that is shaped like the skull of a malnourished orphan and weighs more than an NBA player’s testicles. I had two slices of 35 calorie bread prepared on a plate that my laziness was choosing to pass as clean. Distracted by thoughts of my own inadequacies and ways I can get through life without ever working again, I carelessly slathered a mound of mayonnaise on a single slice of the slimy red fruit and shoved it into my mouth. My haphazard multitasking of chewing and slicing came to a halt when suddenly…
The sly tomato slipped through the confines of my molars. Resourceful, as all tomatoes are, it used mayonnaise and my panic as lubrication and took a suicidal plunge down my throat, lodging itself mid-journey. I couldn’t breathe. Visions of my impending death overtook my mind. My oxygen-deprived body would slide onto the kitchen floor, twitching
for some reason that I don’t think is scientifically possible, perfectly positioning me on my back. My lifeless eyes would stare at the ceiling; my limbs sprawled about in the form of a chalk outline with an unexplainable pool of blood seeping out from under me. Who would find me, my roommate? If she was not making a freezer pop run to the kitchen, it was likely to be days. Who would tell my mom? Would she drive to Tennessee for a funeral or fly my corpse back to Pennsylvania? Would my sister take off work? Would my brother leave his apartment? Would my father clear time in his social calendar? Would it be reported as an accident or a suicide? Would they curl or straighten my casket hair?
Swallow. The tomato easily moved from my throat to my stomach as I continued to stand and slice, distracted by thoughts of my own inadequacies and ways I can get through life without ever working again, when I realized:
I am in the midst of an existentialist crisis. This is why I fear tomato-related death and haven’t written in two weeks.
Not to say I haven’t tried. I have four different blog postings half-written, all too sub par to continue the effort. Instead of using the three free nights I had this week to write as I normally would, I sat in bed watching movies on Netflix, passing out at 10:00 waking up at 1:30, and staying up the rest of the night, tossing and turning while picking kernels of popcorn out of my hair.
Just last night I had intentions of coming home from work and writing until midnight. Those were my intentions. But the reality of my recent behavior involved watching reruns of Sex and the City and falling asleep on the futon with a half eaten bowl of popcorn and a completely eaten box of chocolates to keep me company. I slipped in and out of consciousness for a few hours but finally awoke around 3:30 after having a dream about taking a bath with Kim Kardashian, while meeting with an attorney about making Wen the only hair product available in the United States.
This morning I awoke as the only 23 year old in the world dealing with a morning after headache from eating too much sugar. A friend of mine asked me to join him tailgating at the local college football game this afternoon. It is hardly my scene but I am considering it since it involves free food and liquor.
All of my innocent self destructive behavior and thoughts of death come down to my exhaustion from being in an eternal state of not knowing what I’m doing with my existence. I realize this is a problem that only plagues fat citizens of first world countries and I really deserve to contract Malaria for the pettiness of my concerns, but I simply cannot help it. As I have described in a previous blog entry, I feel like I am 23 going on 90.
Maybe I just need to drink.
Thoughts, criticisms, and general cruelty is encouraged. Thank you.
The girl who every time misspells tomato, “tomatoe” before cursing and backspacing