Elsinore

There are men of thought, and there are men of action. In the extreme case, the two sets do not overlap. If you think hard enough, you realize that all action is futile because we’re all going to die anyway, and it’s much better to stay home and watch reruns of House. And if you’re out acting, well, you obviously didn’t think it through enough.

Or maybe the two can coexist inside a single person, and only clever intellectual maneuvering can keep the two sides from a complete détente of depression. *

I have devolved into a bizarre and tangled metaphor. To summarize: I think too much. I act not enough. I am not sure if the same “I” is responsible for both, whether the concept of “I” even means anything, and whether any of it even matters.

See, I overthought again.

* Yes, I realize that Hamlet already said that. I’m not going to quote the speech because, well, I’m not in high school anymore. Because of that selfish Shakespeare, all the rest of us have left to do is regurgitate his thoughts in slightly more modern Modern English.

** Much less abstract entry coming up, as soon as I wade out of the philosophical labyrinth. I’m thinking concrete nouns, actions verbs, visual imagery, the works. I might even throw in some pictures.

So it turns out that everyone wants to be a writer. I was recently informed that everyone and their mom has a blog, and therefore blogs are lame. Also, Gene Weingarten's polls reveal that most people would choose to be a writer if they could make their current salary doing it. Of course, you should question the scientific validity of a poll answered by people who read the musings of a deranged humor columnist for fun. For example, I know plenty of well-adjusted techies who spend their free hours reading tech blogs. And they are perfectly happy with their day jobs.

Haha, I kid. No, of course, like all techies, they are completely miserable, and spend all their waking hours (that are not taken up by working and reading tech blogs) dreaming up schemes of how to continue doing exactly what they are doing now somewhere else.

Along a similar vein, it turns out that Julia Roberts dreams of being a housewife, housewives dream of being Julia Roberts, a corporate drone dreams of being a writer, and writers dream of steady employment.

I would say there’s no hope for humanity, but I’m trying this whole staying positive thing. So instead, let’s all congratulate Julia Roberts. She’s had a rough run, but I believe that if she really tries, she can achieve her ambitious dream of being a housewife.

My sister left a message on my Facebook wall today. I quote:

i'm sitting here, alone, inhaling a cocktail of mocha coffee, yogurt pretzels, advil, emo, and sour patch kids. must be friday.

People who don’t know my sister would read that as a cry for attention. People who do know my sister would shrug because everything my sister does is a cry for attention. They’d realize that someone who really needs the attention of their own sister could find better ways to get it than leaving a posting for the world to see. As an ostensibly smart person, my sister is aware of the invention of the telephone machine. However, these people lack my confused maternal instincts towards my sister, so they wouldn’t pick up the phone immediately like I did. Plus, given the note, I figured I had about a 5% chance of finding my sister alone, as promised, which means that she might be able to talk to me without distraction for at least 2 minutes, after which she’d inevitably run into someone more interesting to talk to. I was liking my odds.

Of course, statistics never did me any favors. When I called, I got a distracted hello and laughing in the background. She then talked to her friends for a couple minutes while I scrutinized my cuticles. She said she’d call me back.

In any case, consider my attention granted.

After only a week in Italy, everything became clear. After the fog of jet lag had lifted, I saw my purpose in life. I realized that I was made to live on gelato and champagne, basking in the autumn sun of the Mediterranean. Since I was a little girl, it had always been my sacred dream to spend money like it can never run out, drink like I never have to get up early in the morning, and wax philosophically with the lightheartedness of someone who never had to make a real decision. All those years of searching and agonizing, when the answer was staring at me all along from the glossy cover of Luxury Travel: I was born to be an independently wealthy tourist.

I’m sure that if I had taken one of those career tests in high school, it would helpfully point me to Rich Tourist, right between Rice Grower and Rickshaw Driver. My teacher would congratulate me, shake my hand, and send me to the career distribution office right next to the school library. The secretary to the dean of career distribution, a brassy middle aged woman with supernaturally red hair, would crack a smile when she saw my paperwork. “Rich tourist, huh. I pulled mid-level bureaucrat, and I never looked back. I tell ya, they really look out for you around here.” Then she’d reach down into her desk and jangle innumerable keys, all the while snapping her gum and winking at me mysteriously. She’d then emerge with a burlap sack with a big green $ sign on it. “Well, good luck. Not that you’ll need it. I tell ya, they really look out for you around here.” And then I’d be off to the airport for my first flight to Rio de Janeiro.

I must have been out sick that day. If anyone has an extra life's savings lying around and wants to make a little girl's simple dream come true, send it my way.