My friend didn’t pick a best man for his wedding. This didn’t shock or annoy me. I assumed he had so many best friends that he didn’t know which one to choose, so he just didn’t choose. One day, when the sun melts in the sky and telepathic unicorns inhabit the earth, I might get married and need to make the same decision.
Who should I pick? I certainly have plenty of colorful characters in my rogue’s gallery. What would that best man say about me? Will he offend me? Will any of my buds survive until that far-off day of my wedding? I don’t know. Maybe my funeral, instead, is when my friends and family get to make fun of me.
Who am I as a person? Should I be worried or excited about what these people may think about me?
These first three paragraphs were originally supposed to be three completely different columns, but I didn’t have enough to write about all of them, so I decided to just crush them together with hopes that they’d mix into something decent.
I was going to write something like, “Will my friends think I’m brave/stupid/overzealous because I packed up and moved to NYC to pursue a career in magazine writing and editing?” Well, I got hired and then laid off from my mag gig.
“Will people remember me for all the good things I’ve done in the world or all the great partying I’ve done?” Probably the debauchery. Follow-up question: “Does anybody (except me) see all the teaching and writing as ‘memorable good things?'”
Writing this column makes me feel like Master Yoda is poking me with a stick while saying, “All his life has he looked away to the future, the horizon. Never his mind on where he was. Hmm? What he was doing. Adventure. Heh! Excitement. A Jedi craves not these things.”
Ugh, am I really the type of nerd who compares his life to Luke Skywalker’s? Quotes Yoda? Writes about an existential crisis when the only hard things he’s ever done in his life is complete a master’s thesis, survive a few breakups, pay a jillion dollars of hospital bills, move to another continent or pen a weekly column while slacking off at his boring job?
Good grief. Now I’m burning out my shoulders trying to pat myself on the back as I talk about all my “great and impressive” accomplishments. Now I’m belittling myself in my own column. Is this my professional work or just a page from my junior high diary? I’m expecting to see, “Girls don’t like me and I hate my science teacher” written over and over again.
Maybe I should hang up my keyboard. I haven’t made it as a writer yet. By the time I finish my novels, will anybody even be able to read? May as well throw in the towel.
Oh great. A “writer” writing about how he hasn’t made it as a writer yet. Real original. I wonder what’s next in his undiscovered territory of literature. Stupid people eating Tide Pods? Trump? How the end of “Lost” sucked? How “Arrested Development” was totally underrated?
I could always write about how my dad and I don’t get along …
Eureka! Finally, there’s a topic I can get writer’s cramp over. Until next time, true believers.