May222009
Or Public Speaking.
What’s the worst that could happen?
Other than, of course, sudden death. Or a caving floor. Or pink meat. Or heavy rain. Or hail. Or an ice cream headache, followed by a regular headache. Then a migraine. Or bad traffic. Or a flat tire. Or two flat tires or the sudden absence of tires in general. Or grand theft auto with a gutted Nissan. Or grand theft me with a gutted body, organ thieves. Or meticulous, slow-moving organ thieves and I awake in the middle of their procedure to my heart beating slowly in the palm of someone else’s hand. Or he becomes startled and drops my heart, forcing me to hands and knees and a hasty if admirable attempt at relatively spontaneous self-surgery. Or I’m not fast enough, and my detached heart gives up as soon as I’m hands and knees on the floor, with my butt to the ceiling and one side of my face against the tile like I meant to be here. Or no one ever finds me, the building rots and molds and eventually caves to rubble, only to be rediscovered thousands of years later with my skeleton - butt, in air; face, against the surface formerly known as tile - and the current batch of humans assume we, at some point in time, crawled around with our butts lifted and our faces skidding along the ground like some strange, constant reverse birth. Or I’m never found. Or none of this happens and I fall asleep, sleeping through the alarm because of a very involved dream in which I, upon meeting the best version of myself, spiral into a crushing depression only worsened by the best me’s constant reminder that “I could be so much better. I could be me!” - and I miss every important meeting or interview or major television event because of a sudden, unexpected shift in sleeping habits. Or I never go to sleep, become an insomniac, and start writing mystery novels in reverse and realize there really isn’t much difference. It opens, continues, and ends with a murder; once you flip that, the very worst you’ve done is write an accidental zombie thriller in which the guns eat bullets and rising from the dead is just a day in the life.
Or an unfortunate coincidence, a perversion of fate, in which the only possible social exit is some form of public speaking. A lecture hall, even. Impromptu and generally well-attended.
This is the worst that could happen.
Tags: /Fear /Fear Itself /Or Public Speaking /Trace William Cowen /Words /blankets /life /literature /social /societal idiocy /Not Terrible /life is funny /fun /butt /butts /ice cream headache /pink meat /flat tire /grand theft me /reverse mystery novels /Public Wreaking /Beautiful
