a goal is a wish your heart makes

So, goals. I’m supposed to have some of those, aren’t I? It would be nice to have a map of the future, against
which I can measure out my days and schedule my nights, and in that way have a
clear path toward excellence and awesomeness and superior excellence, which
will make my mother proud; make old women weep at the beauty of it; make small
children laugh the joyous laugh of the young and the innocent. And then, I’ll
ignore them again! That sounds like a plan.

It is Friday the 13th, which seems like an
appropriate day to set up appropriate goals to be neglected. I am not saying that I will be unlucky in my
goals–no no, it’s not luck that feeds into my failure to accomplish things, it is
pure effort and willpower. It is because I like Friday the 13th and I
like to make goals that I will not achieve, and thus, a beautiful confluence is
born, here, right now, and for the future. Hello, future!

Let’s divide this up into categories: animal, mineral and
vegetable. Okay, possibly that will not work. Let’s divide it into mind, body,
and soul. By soul, of course, I mean
"funky, secular testifying," because that is just the way that I

So we’ll start with my mind, which is a terrible thing. And
not just to waste. I am a little crazy, here in my tiny head, and maybe you
haven’t noticed, but slowly? I’m getting
It’s not just the voices, or the smell of burning toast, or the
urge to lick the backs of the necks of strangers on the train, or the way I
have begun to erect a shrine to my spirit animal, the screaming badger, on the
tank of my toilet, which is starting to worry the cat a little bit.

It’s certainly not my sudden inability to wear underpants
underneath my clothes where they belong, or the way I can totally read your
mind and didn’t I tell you not to judge me? You can’t judge me! Only God can
judge me, and he thinks I am so cool and we have exciting mystery adventures
and you are just jealous that you and your God don’t solve crimes the way me
and my God do. No, it has something to do with the way I am easily
distractible, tend to go off on tangents that make little to no sense, and also…hi, you’re so pretty! I’m going slowly crazy. I need to focus, man. I would like
to reach inside my head, possibly via my ear canal but I am open to more
invasive methods if you can guarantee their efficacy, and tune the little knob
that will bring everything back sharp and clear and making a little more sense.

Everything’s changing, and I can’t keep up with it, and it’s
leaving me a little dizzy, and covered in badger hair. I need to maybe take up
yoga, or knitting, or meditation, or Valium. That will be extremely useful, I
think. Also, I should probably start taking my B-12 vitamin a little more
regularly, because I hear that B-vitamin stuff is good for your brain, which I
am starting to not have. A brain, I mean.

Speaking of vitamins: Let us move on to the body. It needs to be vitaminized, and proteinated,
and rubbed down with unguents and watered and sung to. I do not want to be
bald! I do not want to be bald and crazy! Vanity, I think, is what’s going to
keep me on track with my vitamins and big heaping gobs of delicious lean
proteins, because otherwise at parties, people will say, "who invited the
gibbering neo-Nazi in the corner? Because man.
She’s hot!"

I also do not want to have flubbery skin. Okay, I have
flubbery skin. Flubbery skin is a very, very, very sad thing that I don’t want
to talk about, and please don’t leave me, breasts. To keep my skin less
flubbery, I need to moisturize at least 17 times a day with yak butter,
applied with a handle of fatty uncooked bacon. And the weight lifting. They
tell me I should be lifting the weights, and putting them back down. I have got
a fancy new gym to go along with the fancy new job; at the fancy new gym, I
will say Mr. and or Ms. Personal Trainer, please make me hot. And they totally
will! That is the secret superpower of a personal trainer, with whom I shall be
best friends, much in the way of my friendship with God, but the crime we’re
fighting? That’s right, it’s wimpiness. I am going to be so buff, and so not bald, and
please, boobs, you want to stick around for that, right? We all do.

Also, you know. Blah blah water, blah blah running. Well, I
can’t say blah blah about running, because I love the running, the running so
far away. The running all night and day. I would like to go faster, and
further. I would like to run a 5K, and as it turns out, 5Ks are not held on
treadmills. So I am going to have to break out of the gym and get my ass
sprinting through the park, and that sounds absolutely terrifying, and also
fucking exhilarating. Here I come, small woodland creatures! Please do not bite
me. If you’re in Golden Gate Park and see a girl with
chimpmunks hanging off the sleeves of her track jacket, a rabbit gnawing on her
ear and a trail of skunks dragging behind her, please say hi!

And finally, soul. I solemnly swear to get down, get funky,
at least one time a week.

Thank you! Thank you very much! I hear it takes a village,
so please do join me as I solemnly swear to, if not strictly adhere to my very
excellent goals, at least continue to try and kick a little ass. And if I have
time, take names.

8 Replies to “a goal is a wish your heart makes”

  1. Some folks who think their marbles are rolling out their ears really just need more SLEEP. How you doin’ in this regard? What with the MAJOR LIFE CHANGES and all… I hope you gave yourself a week between jobs, m’dear! Take GOOD care of yourself, and sincere thanks, as always, for sharing it all, and in such lovely prose.

  2. You’re funny, so freakin’ funny, and that’s great because it makes the crazy less crazy and more, well, funny. So, you know, thanks for that! (Truly, this may have been your funniest post yet. I laughed out loud. Repeatedly. But, just to give you some perspective, I’ve a bit of the crazy meself, so take that for what it’s worth.)

    Keep on with making your goals and keep on with keeping on in keeping them. (What?) That’s the best you can do: make them and aim for them and do your damnedest and then see which you’ve done and which you haven’t and then just…keep on keepin’ on. Don’t expect perfection. But aim for it. And then be proud. Because you’re trying. And because there are too many people who feel like crap about themselves in this world so, hey, don’t add to it.

    By the way, running outside? WAY BETTER THAN THE TREADMILL. I mean, it’s phenomenal. Scary as hell at first. (People, like, SEE you. That freaked me out at the beginning, and I wanted to go screaming back to the treadmill.) But after a while? Fuck ’em. They are just out there doing their own exercise–or not, maybe just hanging out and doing nothing–but either way, whatever. Because you’ll be too busy running in the breeze and happily laughing (to yourself, I recommend) to care about them once you get over the initial shock of, you know, people seeing you.

    Good luck with that breast thing, though. I hope you fare better than I in that department.

  3. This right here –>”If you’re in Golden Gate Park and see a girl with chimpmunks hanging off the sleeves of her track jacket, a rabbit gnawing on her ear and a trail of skunks dragging behind her, please say hi!” is Awesome. And so are you. I solemnly swear to get down and try to create my own crime fighting clue sniffing union with God as well.

  4. You might perhaps run even more swiftly if pursued by the allegedly man-eating Basra badgers, purportedly released by the British on the unwitting – and unfleet – populace.

    I’m really into Dr. Hauschka’s Quince Cream to keep the flabbergasping at a minimum. I’d tell you what I use on the rest of my body to keep it relatively – except the girls – but then, I’d have to kill you. It’s ghastly expensive and only available at a way-too-tony shop in New York. But, damn, it has worked well through 150 lbs.


  5. I got a little behind…I love you, it is like you write out the crazy things in my head, and make me feel like I am not so crazy…so you know…if others feel like you, then you are not crazy, right?

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