Conor and I have a wall in our office where we put up potentially great ideas on sticky notes. Some of these ideas include: Shitta Filters (Britta filter for your farts), Bacon Wrapped Dates (a calendar wrapped in bacon), CDs 4 CDs (mix-CDs for creative directors) and Gettin' Sweaty with Petty (an aerobics video starring Tom Petty). Most of our great ideas are either puns or rhymes. But, really, aren't all great ideas puns or rhymes?
Although I like the idea of Gettin' Sweaty with Petty, I don't like Petty and I can get just as sweaty without him.
A couple weeks ago, my palms started sweating. No idea why. Nothing's changed. They just started getting really clammy one day and now I have perpetually sweaty palms. They're sweating right now.
I've gone from shaking hands and high-fiving to simply giving fist-bumps. It feels douchey, but it's better than seeing people wipe their palms on their pants after every hand-to-hand interaction. The fact that I worry about it makes it even worse. It's like telling yourself not to think about baked potatoes and then that's all you can think about. Baked potatoes with butter and sour cream and colby jack cheese and bacon bits. Wrapped in tin foil. With sea salt and freshly ground black pepper. Mmm.
New idea for the wall: BAKED potatoes. Potatoes for high people.
I'm a big ball of nerves and anxiety. If I'm not in bed by 11PM, I won't fall asleep till 3 or 4AM because I'll be freaking out about the fact that I won't get a full eight hours of sleep. You know how stupid that is? If I could just chill, I'd be fine, but I stress myself out about not getting enough sleep so much that I end up not getting enough sleep.
It hasn't been as bad recently because I've been keeping busy and getting my daily exercise (PROTIP: Exercise helps relieve stress), but there were times where I couldn't breathe because I'd be freaking out about the stupidest shit. Like flying. Or early morning car rides. Or giving a presentation at work.
Sweat is weird, isn't it? This liquid just oozes out of your skin to help keep you cool in case you need to flee. Or fight. Right? That's the point of sweat. Not sure how sweaty palms makes sense biologically though. Maybe so I can slide down trees faster?
On the upside, I can make sweet fart noises with my hands now. Fart, fart, fart. Toot, toot, toot.
Expectations are high. That's why I'm a big ball of nerves and anxiety. I'm stressing myself out because I haven't achieved my goals yet. It's stupid. Not that I haven't reached those goals. The stressin' part is stupid, I mean.
We all have these self-imposed expectations, but we're the only ones who know about them and if we fail to reach them, we're the only ones who care. The world won't stop because I ended 2013 without getting published. Birds will still fly and fish will still swim and dogs will still poop. Fart, fart, fart. Toot, toot, toot.
It's tough telling yourself that though. Those goals matter to you. And no one else is you, so of course they won't care. You are you. You is you and they is your goals. But it's important to keep in mind that you will one day die and your body will rot in the ground and the worms will tear through your decaying flesh and your bones will turn to dust. Whether we achieve our goals or not, it's going to happen. So we should try to enjoy this shit while still striving for those golasos.
This was a morbid attempt to remind myself to relax and not be anxious about things. Breathe.
I'm going to go play some video games now.
Fart. Toot.
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