Ode to a Ball of Fuzz or Me, me, ME!

For a little while there (about three seconds…) I thought that it was high time I write a truly self-praising, egotistical piece. What kind of loser would I be if I couldn't at the very least manage that? I would no longer be able to hold my head up among all those other people that have personal websites, not with the low self-esteem the lack of promotion for me, me, ME! on my site implies. But then that part of me that contains, you know, the intelligence and reasoning came through. He always does. I think his name is Stan. Actually, now that I ask the intelligence and reasoning in me, his name is Stan. He likes BBQ potato chips and strawberry ice cream. He told me that I have better things to do with my time, like going out to buy more chips. We had plenty of ice cream. I just think it's unfair that he's the one that wants the ice cream, and I'm the one that has to work off the calories. Oh wait. I don't work off calories; I hoard them. I know that one day, we're going to run out of food, and then all the fat will come back to serve me. You can't have the fat, aerobics instructor! It's MY fat! I'm keeping it!

I know I don't have low self-esteem. I can laugh at myself, and I do, loudly and often. I think I'm ugly, fat, and have this skin color that isn't going to make my life as fun as it could be. That's what I say to comfort myself if I ever get lonely on a Saturday night. It's ok, I say, you can't help how other people look at your skin. Don't get me wrong; I like my skin. It keeps all my precious innards inside my body, and all those evil bugs outside, away from my innards. Sometimes I can make funny noises with my skin if it's wet that mimic hysterical bodily functions. No, I'm kidding, I can't do that actually, but I do wish I could. Maybe then everyone would love me.

So, I'm not a big fan of my body. It doesn't mean I hate it either. I'm glad I have my body because without it, how would I get downstairs for more ice cream? My body is just there. Go body! So then there's that enigma of the human being, the mind. I'm kidding again. Maybe if I were a big fat old white evil guy, like Stalin or Santa Claus, I would own a mind that is an enigma. Such as it is, my mind is as about as enigmatic as the brain of a hamster. Everyone knows what I'm thinking, and anything I have thought or ever will think has already been thought out by some other person, usually older, smarter, and whiter than I am. My body isn't anything special. I've established that fact. I think there were a couple years back in elementary school when I thought my mind was smart and unique, although I'm still not sure what the merits of having a smart mind is, except to make other people sad. Most of the smart people I know, and there are plenty at my school, use their intelligence for the sole purpose of making other people sad. But no matter, my mind is not particularly smart. I can add though. I can add darn well. Go mind!

So. I'm not a big fan of my mind either. I am going to try to take comfort in the idea that maybe I am not my mind. Maybe I'm the ball of fuzz floating in the air that lands on the couch, and bounces to the floor, and then one weekend I'll vacuum myself up, and then tie up the vacuum cleaner bag, and throw me away, and I'll spend my life at the dump. Maybe we're all balls of fuzz, and we're all living out our lives in landfills. No wonder they are overflowing, with all those balls of fuzz and old Christmas trees. It's funny then that no one I know uses real pine trees, and that I've never seen a dump in my life.

Ball of fuzz that is me, I love you!

Remember that commercial, it was a car commercial, Jaguar, I think, and there was some rock star being driven along, and sticking his head out the window, and singing a depressing song? The ad asked what rock stars dream of, because apparently, all we normal folks dream of being rock stars. (By the way, my last statement is based on the assumption that everyone reading this isn't a rock star. If you are in fact a rock star, please, please contact me. I can't sing, nor play any musical instrument, or dance very well, but I really, really want to share potato chips with a rock star. And there's someone named Stan I want you to meet too. Now back to me, me, ME!) I don't know about you, but the commercial's right. All I ever dream about is being a rock star.

But I had an out-of-body experience one night, and now I know what rock stars dream of.

Being me!

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