Finding a body. And by this I don’t mean finding a dead person. Somehow, a “body” and a “dead person” are two completely different things in my mind. A “dead person” is somebody that I know a little bit, or love, or liked for some small reason. This would be terribly sad. I obviously do not want to find someone I know dead. But the “body” is something different. I think about stumbling upon a body when I’m out somewhere, not looking for dead bodies. What would I do? Would I touch the body, to make certain the person is deceased? Would the body be really smelly or bloated? How might I react? Would I cry/barf/scream? I freak myself out about this more frequently now that I live in a big city. Law & Order tells us that dead bodies are just lying around everywhere in urban centers: next door apartments, offices, dumpsters, alleys, and, of course, behind any available shrubs, trees, or foliage in like, every park. Understandably, I am loath to go jogging.
If my cats can understand English. That’s a real knowing look in your eyes, Butters. And you, Karen O, sometimes I really think you just want someone to talk to. Please don’t take my insults to heart. You are stinky sometimes and I know I say that I hate you, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love you.
Wearing embarrassing undergarments and getting in a car accident. Or any accident, really. As a 20-something lady who likes to look sort of okay on the outside sometimes, I’m ashamed to say that I have worn underwear or bras with holes, weird stains, or too far-stretched elastic. Hell, I’ve even worn swimsuit bottoms in place of underwear because sometimes I felt like it didn’t go to the Laundromat. This is all fine and good, as long as I’m the only one that knows. But what if I’m in a car accident? Or a bus hits me? Or a window unit air conditioner falls on me? Or I have a seizure on the train? The EMT, doctor, or even good Samaritan who tries to keep me from dying is absolutely going to notice that my bra is held together with tape or my Xhilaration-brand Target panties have a series case of droopy drawers. He (in these scenarios it’s a he) would undoubtedly be a smoking hottie ala George Clooney in the first season of ER or Mark Ruffalo. He’d also be the type that likes girls who treat themselves to the finer things in life, like lacy matching bra and underwear sets. So, I might as well just croak if that ever happened.
Getting back together with my ex. He’s The Ex. For a while it seemed as though the bounds of time and space couldn’t keep us apart. Some serious Facebook stalking, however, revealed that he has a new girlfriend now. They have been together about a year, since around the time I told him I had somebody and couldn’t go to visit him. This particular thought is most certainly the most irrational.
Whether or not my teacher had a crush on me. Nothing happened. But still, did he?
Winning the lottery. You can’t win the lottery if you don’t play it. If you play it, you still probably won’t win the lottery. You’re more likely to find a body or have a seizure on the train. Nevertheless, I spend a good chunk of my life thinking about winning the lottery. First thing, I would jump up and down and scream “IWON! I WON DA MONEY!” like the old guy who wins the money in Vegas Vacation. I wouldn’t have a heart attack, though. Next, I’d have to make some choices. Take a lump sum, or spread a bigger amount out over thirty years? Lump sum. I could have a heart attack. I’d pay off my credit card bills first, then my student loans. I’d buy a car, but nothing flashy. A Prius, maybe. Something normal and cool. I’m not sure if I’d move out of my apartment right away. Certainly, I would look into buying a house, but I’d probably take a month-long vacation first. Scotland. Or Peru. I would take my family with me, and give them lots of money as reparations for me being a huge bitch when I was teenager. I would invest some of it. I’d also get really good health insurance and maybe even go to the doctor for a checkup. I’d treat my friends. I would give my brother tuition money so he could go back to school, but only if he dumped his terrible girlfriend. I would order vegetarian entrees at fancy restaurants and drink $20 cocktails, but I’d still shop at H&M. There is no way on earth I wouldn’t still keep it real. Except, I think I’d start seeing a therapist, so I can work on the whole anxious twitching thing.