humans are funny

Author: laurenne

  • I might as well just reference ‘The Martian Chronicles,’ another book I read in junior high that I didn’t understand because I didn’t know it was a book of short stories and therefore couldn’t figure out why the same characters weren’t in every chapter.

    Last week I revealed my hopeless case of hopeful romanticism, flanked by the hope that a Spaniard who knows nothing about me would show up at my door in some spontaneous gesture of romance. I now see clearly that there are two slight problems with my pathetic idealism:

    Number One:  My hope-filled hopeless fantasies always involve people who don’t know much about each other. The moment they ask questions, the romance surely dies.
    Number Two: I’m so consumed in fantasy that I don’t realize what’s right in front of me.

    There’s beautiful romance right here already!  There was a Taboo Tales show last month. Before it started, someone placed a metal robot on the stage. I didn’t notice the little guy because I was hosting the show, trying to be funny, and praying that nothing would go awry. It wasn’t until afterward that I saw he was the robot logo of this here blog, meticulously carved out of metal!

    WHAT!?
    The card read, “I honor your contribution to humanity.”
    WHAT!?
    I had no idea what that meant because I haven’t volunteered in a while, and I always mean to text my donations into the Red Cross because it’s easy and only ten bucks, but I never really get around to it.
    The robot maker explained that he liked what I wrote here on Humans are Funny, thought that making people laugh was a fine method of helping humanity, carved this little guy out of metal, AND THEN drove an hour to see the Taboo Tales show and present him to me in person.
    WHAT!?
    How romantic! How meaningful! And what a relief– I do not need to feel guilty about that volunteer trip to Haiti I never took.

    This little robot man could be the most thoughtful gift I’ve ever received (besides a Richard Marx CD in sixth grade and the recordings of my cheerleading competitions my mom just had transferred onto DVD. To future husband: sorry). My heart is jumping with glee. Not because I’m getting presents but because something I wrote affected someone else. That means more than anything.

    Today a friend asked me why I blog, which is to say, “Why do you continue to spend hours per week cranking out essays about your intimate life details for an audience that’s honestly not that large?”
    I didn’t go into the fact that my goal in life is to really make people feel something. “I just want to make people feel.” Sounds creepy. I’m keeping that one to myself.
    Instead, I told her about all the people I’ve met through blogging. When people come here to read what you’re writing, it’s because they get you. A blog creates a whole community of people who share a similar take on life. It makes for some truly beautiful presents friendships!

    Remember Wuthering Heights? I don’t remember much of that book except that it was snowy and everyone seemed bored and lonely. I just wish they could have each had blogs back then. (Wuthering Heights? Really? What a horrible reference. My insistence on staying in and writing is hindering my pop-culture references. I’ve seen one movie this year. Help!)

    Thank you guys for reading and for commenting and for being funny and for coming back and for understanding me when I sometimes don’t. I can’t imagine my life without my blog. It sounds so ridiculous: “OMG, I would, like, die without my blog because it, like, totally helps me feel.”
    But it’s true. All true.
    LOVE YOU.

    Note #1: Why didn’t my teacher mention The Martian Chronicles were short stories?

    Note #2: Rahul from Your Beard is Good sent me a box of paper towels once, which was very meaningful. I swear. And we met RIGHT HERE! If you start a blog, you too can get paper towels in the mail.

    Note #3: How cool is that robot?

  • Help. I’m trapped inside a fairy tale. Somebody kiss me and wake me up.

    I hate the term ‘hopeless romantic.’ I understand it implies that there’s no hope left for the hopeless romantic. But it’s a misnomer because the very reason a romantic is deemed hopeless is because he or she possesses too much hope.

    I know this firsthand.
    I am a romantic, and therefore full of hope and hopeless.

    I’ve never been very vocal about it because having too much hope in the romance department can sometimes be extremely embarrassing. Really. Embarrassing.

    For example, there was once a time when I was deeply in love with a fellow improv student. Although he had never confirmed for me that he loved me too, my hope told me that he did. Oh yes, I was sure of it, as I had definitely seen some eye twitching in my direction which could have been winking. One day after class, we all talked about our holiday plans. He asked me about my flight home for Christmas, and I told him I had a very early flight out and had to leave my apartment at four am.

    This toxic combination of schedule talk and sappy romanticism convinced me that said improv student would ABSOLUTELY be in my apartment lobby at four am, roses in hand and ready to profess his love to me before whisking me away to the airport.

    I had so much hope that I didn’t even call a cab.

    Then four am came. I walked into my lobby smiling, having practiced my surprised look and brushed my teeth extra hard for that surely breathtaking kiss just moments away.

    And then four-fifteen came.
    Hmmm.
    Four-sixteen.

    Oh.
    No.

    I called a cab.
    But I STILL spent the entire way to the airport looking out the cab windows for my future lover to catch up to us, throw flowers out the window, and beg me to leap from the cab into his lap.

    This is why I keep these things to myself. It’s gross. Just disgusting. Only a delusional narcissist could believe that something so grand could happen, but it my defense: this is how it happens in the movies! It’s society’s fault. Yes. Everyone is to blame besides me. I grew up watching Pretty Woman. Come on! If a hooker can get that ending, why can’t I get a surprise ride to the airport, dammit?

    I realized during this vacation in Utila that I must put an end to this excess of hope because it’s VERY dangerous. Hopeful romanticism creates a filter through which regular language passes and morphs into harmful lies that can lead to random sex or worse: a horrible relationship.
    I can no longer trust myself, and I’m afraid I must be caged.

    The Honduran island of Utila is a trough of travelers from all over the globe. It’s overrun with Europeans, Americans, and Argentinians, most there to get some diving certification at one of the very many dive shops. Due to my romantic filter, my conversations with these people were slightly skewed. Here are some examples:

    What the Argentinian man at Dive Center Said: Hello.
    What He Meant: Hello.
    What I Heard: I’ve been waiting for you all my life, and I will make a fabulous lover and father because of my sexy accent and the fact that I’m not wearing a shirt.

    What Hippie with Beard Selling Bracelets Did: Smiled.
    What He Meant: Please buy something so I can eat today because this hippie thing is actually harder than I thought.
    What I Heard: Oh, hello! You look like an amazing bracelet-making companion. I want you to drop everything and spend the rest of your life traveling with me. Fuck money. All we need is each other.

    What Local Restaurant Owner Said: Nice to see your smiling face here again.
    What He Meant: Please fake marry me for papers and take me to your land, at which point I will kidnap you for ransom.
    What I Heard: Move here! Stop everything you have and just move here. We’ll open a chain of restaurants together and love love love love each other until eternity.

    What a Blue-Eyed Spaniard Said: Do you want to rent a kayak with me?
    What He Meant: Maybe if this chick kayaks with me, she’ll give it up in the water like that last tourist did.
    What I Heard: I am open-minded and adventurous. Of course I would love to move to Los Angeles just to be with you. I can’t wait to tell the story at our wedding about how we met here on this tiny island when you seduced me with  your small breasts and dirty hair.

    See?
    Dangerous.
    My heart is sewn from hope and rainbows, and my brain is filled with fairy tales. Sigh.
    I either need to find someone who bores the guts out of me so that his very existence reminds me that these tales exist only for fairies and prostitutes. OR, I need to find someone just as disgustingly hope-filled and hopeless as I, so that we can spend our lives leaving each other walkways of petals and notes in secret hiding spots.

    In the meantime, I’ll stick to the Spaniard. At least he likes to kayak.

    Yes, I really went kayaking with a Spaniard. And it was one of the funnest days EVER. It’s weird though. Now I’m back in LA, and there’s no package or anything here. I thought for sure he’d have sent me a box filled with a million love notes by now. Or maybe a carving of my face in a driftwood. Or perhaps a ring or even himself. Yeah, he should have moved here by now. I wonder if he got stuck in customs. I better email him. Again.

  • Parrotfish for President!

    During this trip to Utila, I spent an abnormal amount of time staring at birds. It helped me to realize I don’t want to be a bird. Nope. I always thought I would because flying any time I want and shitting on people and cars seems like a dream. But I have a feeling I would really be frustrated without hands. Hands and arms are just the kind of limbs I like. I’m sorry if you don’t have any. You’re probably used to it. And I am sure birds are as well. But I would prefer not to pick everything up with my feet or mouth. It just seems unsanitary. I don’t even let people sit on my bed with clothes on, so picking everything up with my mouth wouldn’t do it for me. Plus, I’d have to taste everything I picked up, even materials for building my nest. That would be like licking the wood at Home Depot. Not for me, thanks.

    I went diving here in Utila, and I got to thinking that maybe I could deal with the no-hands thing if I were a fish. As evidenced in The Little Mermaid, living under the sea is pretty spectacular. There are rainbows of color at every turn, treasures, shipwrecks, and thingamabobs aplenty. After hours of quality time with the Honduran fish, I couldn’t tell two parrotfish apart (I think I’m racist.), but I did want to be one.

    I also saw a huge crab. His body was larger than my head and his legs almost as long as mine. I screamed underwater because, damn, that was a big crab. Utila has somewhat of a crab infestation. On land they scamper around like bunnies. This crab part has nothing to do with anything, but holy shit, that was a big crab.

    What I most noticed about the Utilan fish is their intelligence. They can easily gather themselves into a military-like formation in a millisecond. And to protect themselves from bigger fish, they travel really really really tightly packed in together so they look like one bigger fish. Brilliant. I wish I would have used this technique back when I was going to dance clubs.

    As far as relationships go, most fish prefer to travel with friends. Or maybe they’re into family or their parents are really protective. Either way, there are never fish traveling alone. I thought that was sweet. I’m quite a loner now, but I like friends. I think.

    Coral reefs are a marvel. Some look like flattened pieces of gum, some like brains, and others like they’re waving to you. Lots of corals around Honduras are dying because of the pollution, so there are plenty of areas that look like coral ghettos, devoid of color and torn apart. It’s obvious the drugs and shady stuff happen there. Still, it seemed most fish got along regardless of the neighborhoods from which they came. They’re above judgments– more reason to look past the lack of arms. They all seem to get on fine with different races as well. Sergeant fish swim with barracudas and clown fish with those weird ones who look like sticks. Fish seem fine with mingling with other species too. Some even eat the food that grows off the underbelly of bigger animals. Ok, that’s gross. I would never eat some mold that grew off my fat neighbor, but I like that fish are resourceful. And that they’re colorful. Deep down under the sea, the colors of fish are so bright and so vibrant, it’s as if you’re in an eighties music video or a neon factory. I could definitely be a fish. Not that I particularly liked the eighties, but I have a thing for neon (No, I didn’t like the eighties. Stop gasping. I hated my hair and my face, and I was too young to use cocaine for confidence. Sorry).

    Watching all these fish really brought to my attention the audacity of humans who think we’re the supreme species. Why? Because we have buildings and ring pops and penicillin? Fish don’t even need any of those. Because we can talk? Fish can communicate without having to remember stupid grammar rules. Because we have memories? Think of how many times you’ve heard someone say ‘I’ve been hurt in the past, so I’m just too scared to get close to you right now.’ Because we can kill other animals for our food? Oh yeah, cows put up such a fight. Because we can get dogs to wear sweaters? No comment.

    So, maybe next time we’re using our hands to flip the bird or turn on ‘Real Housewives of New Jersey’ or sext someone a picture of our penis, let’s just take a moment to be humble and remember our fish friends.

    I think the reason I love parrotfish so much is because they remind me of my Caboodle.

    The long and thin stick fish is not used in fish magazines to make all other women fish feel fat.

    Possible set for Poison video circa 1986 or fish abode?

  • I’m getting crabs in Honduras.

    This may be a way for me to say “Ha! Look at this crab. It’s very crabby. I’m off to look for more interesting things, so please excuse my lack of blog entries.” Or, I could possibly be saying, “Warning to all those considering sleeping with me when I get back: I have been having lots of unprotected sex with men who own large amounts of pubic hair and thus bugs who enjoy living in pubic hair.”

    This one is for you to decide.

  • We’re gonna farty like it’s 1896.

    According to the Huffington Post, Maria Gomes Valentim is now the oldest person in the world, born in Brazil in 1896.

    She says her secret to living 114 YEARS is that she eats a roll of bread every morning.
    Yes, a roll.

    I had the great luck of meeting the oldest woman on Utila island yesterday. She won’t tell me her age, but she is definitely the oldest because she has outlived every one of her friends. When asked for her secret to longevity, she says, “I poop every morning.”

    There you have it, ladies and gentlemen: Eat a roll. Poop a roll. Live forever.