I got flowers.

For the first time in over two years. Someone gave me flowers.

And as much as I love sneering at flowers and how cliche a gift they can be, I smiled.

Don't worry though. The flowers came from my professor/coach/director/employer. It'll be a while before I have any new tales of fucked up relationships to tell.

What's the point?

My to-do list never gets done. My interpersonal relationships never go much deeper than a "How ya doin?" and a "Good." And my roommate never stops beating me and shoving pills down my throat. (Did I mention that I never stop being an enthusiastic fan of hyperbole?)

But here's the question: Why bother?

I'm tired. And there's a list of 25 ways to kill myself just lingering on a mirror in the room.

Tonight, I pick number thirteen. Anyone know where I can get a pack of wild emus?

Let's be pen pals!

Did you ever have a pen pal? Do you even remember what that is? Let's start with the first word: Pen. This was used more often before the keyboard took our fingers hostage. Pens are writing utensils that contain ink, and disperse that ink--preferably onto paper while you're writing. Now for the second word: Pal. A pal is a friend or buddy, only kind of in the Facebook sense of the word. You need not really care about a person or feel any attachment or duty to them to call them a pal.

Now. What is a pen pal? A pen pal is a person who you will probably never meet, but with whom you develop a relationship via letter writing. Pen pals were extremely popular when I was in the fifth grade and teachers would do anything to get us to practice stringing together a coherent sentence (even if it meant preying on our predisposition to think that getting mail was somehow cool. (Don't worry though. Bill collectors killed that belief really quickly.)).

So anyway, I was reminiscing the other day (call it "ruminating" if you can't resist the urge to turn it into a pathological symptom) about all of the pen pals I've had over the years. And it dawned on me that a tone was set from the very first sentence of the very first letter sent from one pen pal to the other. I mean, this is it. That sentence is your introduction. It's your chance to say either, "Hey, I'm a really cool person and my writing is fantastical," or "Hey, sorry. . . my teacher is making my do this. . . I hate the world and I suck at life." Of course there's no middle range here, but only two possible interpretations of the first sentence of the first letter.

Thus, I want to go back in time to make up for all of those shitty introductory letters I wrote to my poor pen pals. I mean, really, what was I thinking? I'm sure I tried, but without rhetorical training, those things had to have sucked. Big time.

Let us start with an example of what (I have a feeling) I actually wrote. I no longer have these letters, so I'm guessing.

Dear Sara,

Hi. My name is Allison. I am in the fifth grade. I like school. I am good at spelling and math. I like playing four-square and Barbies with my little sister. Her name is
Chrissy. She has blonde hair. I fight with her a lot.

Do you have sisters or brothers? What is your favorite color? Are you good at spelling? Do you like school?

I hope you are doing good and I can't wait to hear back from you.

Allison

Let us take just a moment to point out the errors in my ways. I hope these would be obvious, but my classmates have taught me to assume little about basic human knowledge or common sense.

1. "Hi." What a captivating introduction! I am on the edge of my seat, just dying to read more. . . . Really? Couldn't I have done better?
2. "I am good at spelling and math." Wow. . . she's gonna like me now. I've never met an unfriendly or unlikeable geek.
3. "[All that crap about my sister.]" Non-sequitor much? And who gives a shit?
4. "[All those pointless questions.]" Yeah. . . any more close-ended questions and we could call this a hybrid of cross examination and the Spanish Inquisition (as conducted by retarded low-level bureacrats of course. "Tell me what your favorite movie is or I shall pull off your fingernails!").
5. "I hope you are doing good." I just wanted to clarify that the grammatical error was intentional.

Now, what would a person do if she wanted to make a really good impression with her first letter to a pen pal? I thought I would try again and write a letter as though I really, truly wanted this person to like me.

While crossing campus this afternoon, stopping occasionally to shield my eyes from the leaves-turned-projectile-weapons-of-mass-destruction, one question plagued my mind: How does she spell her name?

You see, I've been thinking about all of the different important debates that I would like to start with someone like yourself, but I couldn't bring myself to start a letter without knowing. . . "h" or no "h." Perhaps you are more tolerant than I, but when people don't take the time to figure out whether it is "Alison" with one "l" or "Allison" with two "l"s, I get perturbed. I hardly wanted to start off on the wrong foot by
addressing a letter intended for "Sara" to "Sarah" (or vice versa).

With that said, I am going to skip any introduction of myself. I am bored by my life, as are most other people; so I shall assume you would be as well. What I would like to do is ask you about what I consider some of the more intriguing questions in life. For instance, if you knew that you were going to wake up tomorrow with severe memory loss and that you could choose to remember only one idea, what would that idea be? Why? Liberalism? Capitalism? Hedonism? Buddhism? Sadomasochism?

Or, to offer an alternative if you don't want to respond to the previous question, what would you do if you could run the country for a month? You'd be in charge of the executive, legislative, and judicial branches; checks and balances would be non-existent. What's your plan? Revamp Medicare and Medicaid? End Social Security? Attack Canada? Declare yourself eternal dictator?

I look forward to reading your thoughts, and I wish you well. (Oh, and a little tidbit of advice: Don't put white powder in the envelope when you send the return letter. The Post Office gets really mad. . .)

Al

Obviously it could use a little work, but the second letter is greatly improved from the first. And I know I wouldn't have written like that as a fifth grader; no one else would've understood it. But regardless, the example was easier to give by ignoring the obligatory stupidity that comes with youth. (By the way. . . all my peers out there. . . we're still in that obligatory stage. So let's do the world a favor and not get pen pals.)

An AEiF First

Tonight, I am pleased to bring you an official first for Anaerobic Exercises in Futility. (Thus, you can safely assume that this has little or nothing to do with Allison-deprecation or a certain anti-intellectual major field of study at a certain mid-sized state university.)

No, tonight I am hosting a guest writer for the first time. Some of you readers may know him; a few of you may recognize the writing style. (By the way, I am pleased and honored that the writing style has been termed "Allisonian." I consider it genius.)

With that said, here is the first AEiF guest entry. Straight from my favorite political science graduate student and former mock trial assistant coach, Daniffer, a.k.a. Son of Lucifer.

Daniffer on Libertarianism
Libertarianism is the bastard love child that resulted from a drunken hook-up between American liberalism and American conservatism. The hideous offspring argues for little to no government involvement outside of protecting rights and liberties. There are multiple of these crimes against nature, and some are so retarded that they go so far as to argue that government need not supply firefighters, police, or even military because the people will pay for it if they want. At least the people have privacy, unlike under President Fuckface, I mean, Bush.

Daniffer on Capitalism
Capitalism is the means by which the bourgeoisie pigs exploit the proletariat in an effort to forever wallow in their increasing crapulence. The workers are mistreated, misused, and ultimately disconnected from their product, other workers, and society, as well as from their general stance as humans. Capitalism furthers the suffering of the proletariat by creating ideological state apparatuses, such as courts and other legitimizing devices that reinforce the beliefs and ideas (ideology) of the dominant bourgeoisie class. Through this chimera of legitimizing and coercive devices, the bourgeoisie have produced a nearly unbreakable system of oppression where the rich get richer and the poor get anally raped in jail.*

Daniffer on Existentialism
Existentialism is wicked sweet! So your life is meaningless. Yes, that's right, your life is meaningless, and absurd, and nothing has any intrinsic value. (pause) Now that you are all done shooting heroine, having lots of sex, and trying to kill yourself, I should tell you there is an out. Although you are ever haunted by the shit you have done, you can overcome it (but not escape it) by trying, probably vainly, to better yourself. In this search for meaning, you can create a meaning for your crappy life, thus preventing the enaction of the NCUR plan, or the equivalent.** Oh, and by the way, you are all doomed to be free and to hell, as hell is other people ...or perhaps pushing a boulder up a big fucking hill again and again.***

Daniffer on Value Preferences
Oh, and because [a certain values-related educational program for which we have worked] recognizes negative values, the value preferences of the ideas are: Libertarianism = crazy, half-retarded freedom over stability; Captialism = making money and fucking over everyone else over revolution and comraderie; and Existentialism = semi-worthless life over death.





* Ten points to anyone who got that book reference.

** For those who don't know, NCUR is the National Conference for Undergraduate Research and the NCUR Plan is an elaborate (supposedly fool-proof) suicide plan. I would list the numerous steps involved, but I know that one of the adherents would just correct me. I believe it involves poisoning oneself before jumping out of a window on the tenth floor of a building, and then stabbing and shooting oneself during the fall to the ground. I could be missing several steps though.****

*** Fifteen points to anyone who got that book reference. *****

**** Personally, I think the plan is a bit over-the-top ("overkill," if you're a fan of puns), but the people who came up with the plan are achievement-oriented and I know one of their worst fears must be an unsuccessful suicide attempt, so it makes sense. . . sort of. . . in a weird, twisted way. . . which is what we like, so whatever.

***** Don't worry. This is kind of like Whose Line Is It Anyway? The host is a nerd and the points don't matter.

Life has a funny way

of just biting you in the ass without warning.

For instance, I get to work this morning and I am not feeling so great--for several reasons.

1. I don't like being up early. I intentionally won't let them schedule me for 8AM any more; it's mental suicide. So what happened? I was the only student to agree to work during Fall Break, so they put me on the schedule from 8AM to 5PM, meaning I had to drag my sorry ass in here mere minutes after sunrise (which happened at 7:40 this morning, for those of you who, like my roommate, were pleasantly asleep at the time).
2. Fewer than five minutes after waking up, as I was brushing my teeth, my mind decided it would be a great idea to start the day pissed off. How did it do that? It went, "Hey, remember that shitty email you got from that bitchy group member last night?" And from there it was a downhill battle. "Yeah! I remember that! Oh. . . I am so gonna tell her off when I respond. Let me spend my morning thinking of ten different ways to bitch-slap with courier new, size-ten font without her even knowing I've done it because she's too dense to pick up on subtlety."
3. As I was leaving the building, running late for work, knowing that I was going to be even later because I was stopping at Starbuck's on the way, I ran into this idiot kid who lives in my building and thinks we're friends because we happen to pass each other in the lobby several times a week. This kid also happens to get great joy out of asking me to join him for a cigarette. So at 7:55AM, as I was folding my copy of the New York Times and shoving it into my mom-bag, I was verbally assaulted with, "Hey! I remember you! Wanna cigarette? You know you do! Come on! It's a Camel Turkish Silver!" Well, no shit, I want a cigarette. That's the nature of nicotine and the social aspect of smoking that becomes habitual after two years; but I'm still gonna say no, so fuck off; it's early.
4. After sipping my over-priced, over-commercialized, and over-sweetened tea, I was feeling a little sick to my stomach. My mind instantly registered the problem: "My roommate must die." She spent the weekend dying on the futon, insisting that her stomach hated her. So now, with the weekend gone and my to-do list growing exponentially, of course I would have to spend my week dying (preferably in bed with all my pillows, but I'd settle for the futon too). I was ready to kill her (what's new, huh?) when I remembered something: I'm up and at work at 8 in the fucking morning. Perhaps my body isn't sick at all; perhaps it's rejecting reality (hey, why not take a tip from the Bush administration once in a while?).
5. So I paced the office. I made numerous trips back to the water cooler, thinking that if only I kept moving I could make it go away (I don't know what "it" is, so don't ask). I did stretches and yoga poses behind the receptionist's desk. I stared at the informational pamphlets stacked in the receptionist's area. I tried everything and nothing all at once until it dawned on me: I'm addicted to caffeine; that's the cure! So I got a caffeine pill out of the mom-bag, grabbed my paper cup of water (courtesy Culligan's water cooler), and proceeded to swallow the pill.

Only, life couldn't resist the opportunity to smack me upside the head. I know I shouldn't take caffeine pills, but I also know that I function better when I take them. So of course, I would just have to choke on the pill instead of swallowing it on the first try. And if you've ever had a pill perched right at the top of your esophagus, then you know the horrid feeling that provides. You want to gag or vomit, but then again you want to swallow the pill to reap its benefits, so you quickly down more water, cursing life for reminding you once again that addictions are bad. Very, very bad. Almost as bad as taking on unnecessary responsibilities.

Celebrate with Me!

According to Blogger, this is my 100th post! (Now, don't waste your time counting. If they've included all of the drafts that never got published (and I have a feeling they did), then the count is inaccurate.) Regardless, let's celebrate!

I want to toast all those lost hours of productivity spent on this blog. All those times I used this blog as an instrument of procrastination. All those times I thought, "I think I shall make someone laugh today," and then proceeded to write a post that failed miserably to accomplish my goal.

For all those times, for all the sentence fragments, for all the rhetorical questions, for all the fake reader fan mail, for all the made-up events that make this blog my own, I will be forever grateful. (If by "forever" I mean "for another couple years, until I look back and despise myself for even dreaming of plaguing the world with my thoughts.)

Now, to celebrate, I came up with a couple of different ideas. I was going to give you a top ten list of the ways I'd like to kill my roommate. Or I could give you a bit of an inspirational little talk about how to write for the masses. Or I could write about the progression of this blog over the last thirteen months.

You should all know which one of those options I'm going to choose. Do you really think I'm creative enough to come up with ten good ways to kill my roommate? I mean, there are the obvious things, like being eaten by a wild pack of emus or replacing her vitamins with cyanide capsules, but beyond that, my brain starts to have trouble. We all know that my writing is crap, so that second option must be crap as well. But the last. . . oh the last. . . I love self-deprecation. And I love examining how my methods of self-deprecation have changed over time. Thus, I will be presenting an analysis of how the purpose and tone of this blog have changed over time.

Read. Laugh. Cry. Enjoy the journey.

September 2005 -- 2 posts
These are rather boring. They screamed out, "I'm sorry!" Allison hadn't really figured out what to think about the whole blogging business, and these are pretty pathetic. (At least she never resorted to doing the traditional myjournal deal with, "Today, I ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich before going to physics, but I didn't really like it because we were out of grape jelly and my roommate was being a bitch; she just kept saying she's allergic to jelly and she gets hives just thinking about jelly. . . ugh.")

October 2005 -- 19 posts
Here we see a real search for identity. AEiF was still in its infancy and hadn't established itself as a personal journal, an intellectual forum, or a humor column. We see a lot of mixing of issues. Some entries rant about personal goings-on, others present current life events with a humorous tone, and yet others present random how-to lists. Here we do see the introduction of two very important themes: mock trial and Allison's horrendous taste in men. Those two themes would continue to be a defining characteristic of AEiF for its entire lifespan.

November 2005 -- 14 posts
Here we see a couple of new elements creep into AEiF. First, we have the signature move of the author: posts so long no one has time to read them. (She's good at that.) Second, ranting about work--both as a waitress and as a receptionist. One key entry to note is entitled "Wow. . . Five Days Without Posting. . ." which signals a low point in the author's life when she had nothing better to do than worry about a nonexistent audience.

December 2005 -- 10 posts
You should be noticing one trend here: as the semester progresses, the number of posts per month decreases. That is no accident. Here we start seeing personal life issues creeping back into the posts--a clear indication that seasonal depression does exist.

January 2006 -- 8 posts
Again, we see a decrease in number. Obviously the author doesn't care about you.

February 2006 -- 9 posts
Here we see two very interesting phenomena. One: Allison tries to give advice. Allison, the same girl who previously spent thousands of words telling you why you should never listen to her, suddenly decides to provide advice to the masses. Two: Allison starts inventing fan mail. This should come as no surprise; but really, now. It's pathetic, isn't it? What kind of readership doesn't send fan mail?

March 2006 -- 7 posts
For some reason, perhaps it was March Madness, Allison decided to think that quality was more important than quantity. That is, she started posting longer entries rather than more numerous entries. Silly, girl. You'd rather have frequent, short updates that you can read while taking a five-minute break from work than infrequent, tediously long updates that require their own space on your to-do list.

April 2006 -- 2 posts
Two. That's it? Two? Why the hell are you all still reading this? She clearly turned her back on you by discontinuing AEiF while you weren't (or were) looking. Geesh, people. Get a backbone.

May 2006 -- 7 posts
Five of those seven were about Allison's trip to Oklahoma City. I hope you were intrigued by the OKC, because if not, this month's posts were pretty damn useless. The other two posts: all about gender. What was she thinking? She knows she needs to diversify to hold people's interest. Man. . . she sucks at this whole blogging thing.

June 2006 -- 0 posts
Yeah. . . see this for more explanation. Allison still isn't talking about the month of June.

July 2006 -- 1 post
Again, see that post. Allison isn't talking about July either.

August 2006 -- 2 posts
Boring. All about the return to campus. Feel free to disregard this month in its entirety (unless you need ammo with which to tease Allison about her shoe obsession).

September 2006 -- 3 posts
Boring again. Sorry. Her life is boring. All work--no fodder for funny entries. Feel free to send her real fan mail, replete with questions she is entirely unqualified to answer, and perhaps something funny will emerge in her writing.

October 2006 (so far) -- (this makes) 3 posts
Hey! Three posts by the 8th day of the month! She's trying to make it up to you. She's trying to be a better blogger. Don't give up on her yet. . . please?

Pretty please?

(Was anyone paying attention to the number of posts? Blogger does count drafts as posts. What a stupid fucking thing to do. All this fuss over what is actually number 87. But don't you even think I'm taking it back. I wasted 45 good minutes writing this tribute to number 100--even if it is technically number 87. So you deal with it. Mmk? Mmk.)

You know how they say

that time moves more quickly, the older you get? I don't know who the infamous "they" are, and I don't really care; but I think they're right. Remember how the school year used to drag on and on forever and ever during elementary school? Then it went a little bit quicker in high school. Then you hit college.

Yeah. . .

At the end of each semester, I think about how I'm that much closer to graduation, still that much further from knowing what to know after graduating, and still haven't the slightest clue how the hell I wasted another semester.

For example: at the beginning of this semester, one of my neighbors placed a countdown on her door. It started with 40-some days on it. Then, I would walk by to go to work and it would suddenly be 20-some days. . . then 10. . . then 22 hours. And each time I noticed the change I just stopped in my tracks.

"No!" I thought. There's no way I've wasted 40-some days. There's no way I've been working non-stop (with the occasional exception for a Law & Order or Grey's Anatomy break, of course), been pulling all-nighters and popping caffeine pills, and I'm already half-done with the semester. What about all those projects that should be half-done by now? What about all those extra meetings I should be half-done with by now? And what the hell is going on with that myocardial infarction I requested!?

Then something weird happens. You keep going--as though you have some better alternative, right? And you forget yet again that your life is slipping quickly by, without even bothering to pause once in a while to let you breathe. No, you keep overbooking yourself and telling yourself that that to-do list will get done eventually. But who are you fooling?

I'm not fooling anyone. Want to know how I know? (Of course you do.) That pile of shoes that is a constant presence on my bedroom floor is actually living up to its title. My roommate calls it the "Migrating Shoe Pile." One day it's by the dresser, the next it's by the desk, then it's over by the closet. The thing is, I normally know where the shoes are because I put them there--wherever there happens to be. Lately though, I swear the shoes are migrating by themselves. I can't keep track of them.

Do you know how small dorm rooms are? It's impossible to lose a pair of shoes on our floor (we're cleaner than most college students; you can actually see the floor). . . but I've done it several times now.

I'm losing my mind. And I can't figure out when it happened.

I don't have time for this.

Entrepreneurial Allison

I've been receiving fan mail over the past few months and one theme seems to be recurring again and again: I must be the greatest person you readers have ever encountered. But there's a second theme: You people ask questions that have nothing to do with my (lack of) expertise (in anything). So when I receive questions about how to successfully open a business, I can do nothing but laugh. How the hell should I know?

And yet, then I think about the question. I'm a bright person (unless we're talking about my relationships); I took an introductory economics course; my dream was once to open a coffeeshop (more because I wanted to decorate it than anything else, but it's a business nonetheless); I can do this; I can help this person.

So here are the three essentials to remember when opening a successful business. (I'm sure there are more than three, but I have real work to do at some point tonight. Plus, when it comes to rhetoric, I simply love the power of three.)

(1) Tap a new market. Don't try to open a bookstore or tanning salon in a college town. I guarantee you the market is maxed out. Now, if there happens to be a monopoly in said college town (say, of dry cleaners), then feel free to try your hand at undercutting the monopoly. But for the most part, your best bet is to provide a good or service that no one else has thought to offer. For instance, you could be the first place in town to offer underwater basket-weaving classes.

I've personally decided which market I'd like to tap. You know those Make-a-Wish Foundations and all the other charities that take dying kids to Disney World? Yeah. I don't want to do that. I want to let the suicidal pay me to make their wishes come true before they pull the trigger/down the bottle/tie the noose.

Think about all those people who are just dying (no pun intended) to be done with this life, but there's that one last thing nagging them, that one final thing they want to do before it's all over. If they want to go skydiving, I'll arrange it. Go to a frat party, I'll take care of it. Make up with mom after not talking for twenty years? Hell, I'll even get Dr. Phil for that one. What other service will take care of any (legal) request? (And if it's not legal, what other service will take you to a country where the wish is legal?)

Plus, think about this one: the suicidal typically give away their prized possessions. They aren't going to be around, so why would they care how much money they have? I could charge outlandish fees for my services, and they would pay. They're not going to need the money.

Back on track, (2) You need a catchy name. Now, if you're opening a business all by yourself and you'll be taking the profits all to yourself, then that business is a sole proprietorship and as such, it must have your name in the business name. So you could open "Mike's Dry Cleaning" or "MPF Dry Cleaning." They're not very exciting names, but they get your point across.

I haven't decided what kind of business mine will be (partnership, limited liability partnership, corporation, etc.), so I'll just come up with a catchy name. This one is tricky because I can't advertise with a name like "Dreams of Suicide" or "Happiness in Death." But I don't want to obscure my purpose too much. So I was thinking of something closer to "Final Adventure Associates" or "Genie's Last Wish." We'll see.

(3) Don't limit yourself. What do I mean by this? Well, if you're opening a laundromat then go ahead and throw in tanning beds or free wireless internet service (I've seen both of these done, think them highly random, but understand completely why they're there). In a multi-tasking world, people want everything in one place. And it you can't provide everything, then at least provide more than one thing.

Example: when I open "Eternal Sunset Services," I will not only offer a plethora of organizing and coordinating services to make their dreams come true; but I will also employ "consultants." What will these consultants do? Well, just about anything. They can talk people through the stages of grieving, help people craft a perfect suicide note, and even tell people whether their planned suicide methods will work.

Do beware of the legal consequences of the services you intend to offer. For instance, "The End of the Rope" will never tell a client precisely how to kill him/herself. Nor will our services include the manufacturing or retailing of the means with which clients may commit suicide. Additionally, we will never actually advise clients to commit suicide; we just won't talk people out of it. Instead, we will specialize in the use euphemisms for death, then gleefully cry out in court when someone tries to prove what we meant.

:-D See? Business is fun. Open yours today.