I wish that my tale begins with my mother, a wild Valkyrie of a woman lying, spent, on a bed of green leaves in a tautly silent forest, holding my newborn body up to the soft golden glow of a new moon and, with her last breath, whispering, "Give 'em hell, toots" before flinging me to a waiting she-wolf, to be suckled by her and raised as her own cub. I wish I could tell you that I grew up wild and strong, like my mother, with a careless sneer of a smile and the alc0hol tolerance of an entire German border village. I would love to say that I cut a wide swathe across the earth with my merrily wicked ways, and that all who looked upon me loved me and trembled... And it would give me no end of warm fuzzies to end the tragic comedy of my life story with the retelling of a glorious, Thelma-and-Louise-esque finale, or even a stirring climax of eleventh-hour redemption.
But, um, yeah... that never happened.
I think the bitterest pill to swallow is that a life is only as boring as the person living it. I'm so tired of these Bergman days! So, here is my Anti-Mundanity Manifesto, as written down by I, the Prophet of Lizlam, in my 25 and 11/12th year (may she live at least three more years, and may her name ever be synonymous with the word "fabulous"), and so let it be done:
Decree 1: I miss the days when I wasn't weakminded. So, break out the Ginko Biloba and call my brain back from the Sandals resort in Cancun! And get me a copy of Dostoyevski's The Idiot. And... Gone With the Wind. And... some Dora the Explorer. Stat.
Decree 2: Time to quit everything not keeping me alive. Coffee, sleeping pills, oral fixation anything... it's all gone. My god, I'm so healthy.
Decree 3: Write a book or achieve world peace or something useful. No, wait, I know... form a Mayan Apocalypse Suicide Cult! Ok, so we're meeting in Palenque in... 2012. Bring blankets, patio furniture, picnic food, we'll provide the purple Kool-Aid... I mean, the drinks.
Decree 4: Strike all manner of blahness from my life. Update: My blonde hair is finally gone, may it rest in peace, and has been replaced by a fiery red man of utterly Irish fabulousness. See? My manifest has taken control already!
Decree 5: Have at least one conversation per day that does not involve the person I'm talking to taking on that familiar, ever-horrible glazed-eye look. When did I become so boring? I was never obtuse as a child... or perhaps I was, and I never knew it. Either way. If I can't say anything that won't send my listeners plummeting into a comatose state of no return, then I'd better remain mute.
Ho hum. I believe that's enough decreeage for now. Especially as I'm not likely to ever invite anyone onto this blog, and thus have no reason for all this needless cathartic post-internal monologue.
A brave new world, people. Let's make it happen.
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