There is never a dull moment in the Burcaw household, and this afternoon was a perfect example of that.
My friend Lily (lilygnilu.tumblr.com) and I hung out at my house today. We spent most of the afternoon working on nonprofit activities, but eventually the beautiful day persuaded us to go outside. As we made our way to the patio in my backyard, we heard a loud, rapid flapping noise coming from above.
My mom loves birds. Our backyard is filled with birdhouses, birdbaths, bird feeders, and lots of birds, but this flapping noise was louder and more annoying than the usual chorus of obnoxious bird noises that normally fill the backyard. We quickly located the source of the noise. Below one of the wooden birdhouses near the roof of our deck, in a tangled mess of ivy, was a puffball of feathers in complete spazz mode.
Lily cautiously approached. Even though the psychotic bird was a solid 3 feet above her head, she clearly feared that it was going to burst out of the ivy and peck her to pieces at any moment.
“Oh no! It’s stuck!” Lily yelled in horror, “What do we do?”
Upon closer inspection, she discovered the bird’s foot was caught in some plastic that was also caught on the ivy branch. It was decided that we obviously couldn’t just leave the bird hanging upside down where it would die a slow and lonely death. We had to rescue it.
It’s important to understand the conflict of this situation. Lily desperately wanted to save this bird’s life, but at the same time, touching the bird, or even getting too close was overwhelmingly scary. Her initial reaction was to climb onto the railing of our deck (which sits about 8 feet off the ground), but before she was able to stand all the way up, I convinced her to get down. If the bird would’ve spazzed while she was balancing on the railing, she definitely would’ve fallen to her death and this post would be way less fun to write.
I told her to grab a stepping stool, a box, and scissors from inside the house. While she was inside gathering supplies I realized it was probably good that we were the only two home. My brother would’ve handled this situation with a baseball bat, and it would not have been pretty.
Lily returned with the supplies and set up the stepping stool to better assess the situation. While she was carefully and fearfully surveying the damage, my cat jumped up on the railing and began trying to climb the wooden post up to the birdhouse. I hope she doesn’t get mad at me for saying this, but Lily basically lost self-control at this point. There was lots of shrieking and all I heard was “OHMYGODIDONTKNOWHOWTOHANDLETHISWHATDOIDOHELPMESHANEAHHHH!”
Somehow she was able to pull it together and found the strength to grab Oreo (my cat) and put her inside. Lily was on the verge of tears. I was sitting down below, laughing hysterically, but trying to be as sensitive as possible. It was funny, but I also didn’t want the bird to die.
After she had calmed down, Lily and I devised a plan to cut the branches around the bird so that it would fall into the shoebox that she would be holding below. Amazingly, the plan worked to perfection. It is worth noting (if it’s not obvious) that Lily carried out the plan completely on her own. She had to balance on the stepping stool, while cutting the branches with scissors in her one hand, and holding the shoebox for the bird to fall into in the other hand. It was rather spectacular.
Now the bird was in the shoebox, but still far from being rescued. It flopped around in the box, getting blood (not sure where the blood came from) and poop everywhere, its foot still firmly bound to the branch that Lily had cut loose.
For the next half-hour we tried to figure out how to free the bird from the plastic without Lily having to touch it. She called her mom seeking guidance, but the first thing her mom said was, “DO NOT bring that bird home.”
Lily was too emotionally, physically, and mentally spent to perform the necessary task on her own. So we called Pat, who was in the process of buying a suit for prom:
Lily: “Hey Pat, I’m with Shane and we have an emergency. We have a bird in a box and its leg is caught in plastic and it’s going to die.”
Pat: “That’s not an emergency.”
Lily: “Well it is to us. We need you to come to Shane’s as soon as possible. I know you are buying a suit, so don’t rush, but you have a life on your hands now, so the faster the better.”
Pat: “*laughs* Ok I will be there as fast as I can. It’s going to be at least a half hour though.”
The next half-hour was packed with emotion. We named our bird Benigna. We told her stories and asked her questions and talked about life and death. We wanted her to feel loved in case Pat didn’t make it on time or something went wrong in the plastic removal procedure. There were laughs. There were tears. Meanwhile, I secretly researched the best way to euthanize a bird on my phone, just in case.
Benigna was a fighter, though. She was alert and calm when Pat showed up to save the day. I immediately began to prepare Pat for surgery, filling him in on what had happened (trying not to laugh too hard) and explaining what had to be done.
Pat basically ignored the plan I had laid out for him, which involved him subduing Benigna, while Lily delicately cut away the plastic with the scissors. Instead, he grabbed the bird with his right hand, and started to gently loosen the plastic with his left. He was so graceful and compassionate that I wondered if he had done this many times before.
It might have taken him a total of two minutes to free Benigna, if you subtract the time where she jumped out of his hands and hid under a bush. We cheered as he removed the last of the plastic and Benigna fluttered over to my mom’s garden to recover (hopefully lol). Relief washed over us. Mission accomplished. Life saved.
Had there been an audience, the three of us would have received a standing ovation.
The gem I just dropped
Would make any woman say,
“He went to Jared”
I posted some bathroom humor earlier tonight, COMPLETELY forgetting that I decided last week start a new weekly post called “Toilet Haiku Tuesday!”
From now on, every Tuesday I will reblog the haipoo that made me laugh the most from the previous week. Make sure you submit your best haipoos to toilethaikus.tumblr.com for a chance to have your poem featured!
My insurance company will cover a new wheelchair every six years. I’m guessing they didn’t just pull that number out of thin air—although it wouldn’t surprise me—but I’m sure there was some research that found a wheelchair’s life expectancy to be about six years. Imagine if that was your job: find out how much damage this wheelchair can take before it falls to pieces. I want that job. But I digress…
I’ve been using the wheelchair I currently have since eighth grade, approximately 6-7 years. For the past few weeks, my parents, as well as my physical therapist, have been nudging me to start the process of getting a new one. Believe it or not, I really don’t like changing wheelchairs. I pretty much hate it. But when I tell people this, it usually takes them some time to understand where I’m coming from. I say the word “new” but they hear the word “better.” However, new is not always better when it comes to a seating arrangement that is such a crucial aspect of my everyday life.
I’m not a bratty 7-year-old though, I realize my chair is getting old and starting to break down more often, and I understand how extraordinarily fucked I’d be if my chair broke permanently before I had a new one. So this past Monday night, we met with someone from the wheelchair company to start the arduous process of getting me a new whip.
There are many reasons that I am so against changing wheelchairs. I’ve come to understand that many of the reasons are difficult to comprehend for the average able-bodied person, and that is the biggest problem; the able-bodied people who assist in the wheelchair selection and customization process have trouble understanding the intricacies of how I sit.
For instance, last time I got a new wheelchair, a big point of contention was the fact that I lean so far to the right and put almost all my body weight on my right rib cage. It’s a completely acceptable thing for the therapists and wheelchair representatives to be concerned about. However, and this is a big however, I physically can’t hold my head up or move my arms if my body is adjusted even several inches to the left. When I explained this to them back when I was 13, they essentially ignored me and played the “We’re specialists so we know better than you” card. It was extremely frustrating, as they lifted me from one chair to the next, while I knew just by looking at each chair that it wasn’t going to work.
They always said things like, “Well maybe if we reclined the chair your body would naturally rest on the backrest rather than your side. Or maybe we should look into a head strap that will hold your head in place since you can’t hold it up when you’re in the proper position.”
I responded, “But I would literally have to be almost fully reclined all the time, and I can’t drive that way, so that wouldn’t work. Also, I definitely do not want a head strap.”
Then came their line that filled me with so much anger that my eyes used to tear up, “Well Shane, we might just have to compromise on this one.”
It felt like they were ignoring everything I said, and to be told that I was going to have to wear a head strap from then on, with no say in the decision, was more belittling than you can imagine.
Similar arguments took place for many aspects of my wheelchair, not just the side support, so you can begin to see how I’ve grown to hate the process so much. The fact is, the specialists were usually wrong. They’ve been telling me since I was four that I’m going to get skin breakdown from leaning on my right elbow all day, and that we should look into a bunch of different methods to take pressure off my elbow, methods that would render my right arm unusable. Every six years I fight them off and somehow convince them that my elbow will be fine. Almost 20 years of leaning on my right elbow have gone by, and guess what, not once have I had any breakdown of the skin.
My wheelchair and all of my quirky positions work for me. I’d prefer not to change that.
With all that being said, this past Monday night went very smoothly. Maybe it’s because I’m over 18 now, maybe I was better able to explain my circumstances this time around, but the wheelchair specialist and my physical therapist both seemed to understand that I want to keep as much the same as possible. We’re ordering the newer model of the same chair, and we’re basically just going to re-create the seating position I currently use. It was a giant relief.
Now for the fun part! With a new wheelchair on the way (a process that will take 4-5 months… stupid insurance) I feel like the proper thing to do is take some time to honor the valiant life of my soon-to-be old wheelchair. We’ve been through a lot together… some fun, some shit, but all worth remembering. So I’ve decided to write a letter to my wheelchair to let her know how I really feel.
Dear Darla,
The time has come to say goodbye. But before you go, let’s reminisce about all the memories we’ve shared.
There were the countless feet that we have run over together. Most of the time it was an accident, but sometimes we did it on purpose and disguised it as an accident. Other times we ran over feet because people asked us to, not in a fetishy kind of way, more of a, “Run over my foot I want to see if it hur… OH GOD GET OFF GET OFF!”
There was the time we stayed outside in the summer downpour against all reasonable logic, and you broke down for three fucking days. I had to sit in a very old, very uncomfortable, manual wheelchair while you were being repaired. Andrew parked me in the corner and told me I was in timeout probably 100 times during those three days. Without instant Netflix, I probably would have died.
There was the time we were in the car together, not strapped in because we like to live on the edge, and when mom had to slam on the brakes, you rocketed towards the front of the van, since I had also forgotten to turn you off, breaking my big toe as we collided with the drivers seat. It was a learning experience though, we still don’t strap you in, but I at least remember to turn you off.
There was the time you threw me out of the safety of your seat when I ran over a soccer ball with you. The broken femur I suffered put me out of commission for a month. I still kind of hate you for that, but forgiveness is a process.
There were all the times we were an awesome street hockey goalie. Your 450 lbs of steel and brute force, combined with my cat-like reflexes and determination to win made quite an impressive team.
There was the time our road froze over and we had drift races until my entire body was frozen solid.
There were all the times when I used you as an excuse to get out of class early throughout high school. I think teachers are programmed to just say yes whenever someone in a wheelchair asks to do anything. “Mrs. Smith, can I be excused from class now to beat the crowd?”
“Shane, there are 20 minutes left in class.”
“Yeah but my wheelchair…”
“OH OH I’m sorry, yes, go right ahead. Do whatever you have to do. Here are the answers to tomorrow’s test.”
There was the time I missed the birth of my first-born son because I forgot to charge you the night before.
There was the time I burned holes in your controller interface because I wasn’t paying attention while playing with fire.
We have traveled hundreds of miles together. We went through puberty together. We made friends together. We experienced life together. I can never thank you enough for all that you’ve done for me. You will never be replaced. You will never be forgotten.
Unless, of course, my new chair is a lot cooler.
Dear Shane,
I love you and your amazing blog more than lots of other things. Like homework. So, in honor of your superspecialawesome self, I designed you a wheelchair. I think that it is very practical and would improve your daily life tremendously.
Sincerely,
Sketchy
(PS: I know the wheelchair is a bit wider than a normal chair and may be a tight squeeze through some doorways. But that’s what the rocket launchers are for.)
Holy shit this is awesome. You are awesome. Thank you!
Every time I think about applying for a job, I imagine how potentially awkward but funny a job interview would be for me. So… since I have two huge essays to write within the next week, I decided to procrastinate more and write a hypothetical job interview. For this endeavor I’m going to pretend that I am applying to be a manager at corporate offices for Taco Bell (my dream job). Some aspects of this piece are slightly hyperbolized, the rest are completely made up.
*Imagine a small office in the heart of Taco Bell’s corporate office buildings, located somewhere in South Dakota (which is where I assume the actual Taco Bell corporate offices are located). In the middle of the room is a wooden desk with an Easter basket full of eggs sitting on top (*see below*). Across from me sits a tiny bald man with a furry black mustache. His eyes are sunken and dark, and his left eyebrow is twitching incessantly. He may or may not be in a methamphetamine withdrawal. He stands to greet me as I drive in, extends his hand to shake, realizes how completely obvious it is that I am unable to shake back, panics, but recovers his cool by bending over to give me a small, business-casual, peck on the cheek. Excellent start.
Mr. Goldplum: Good afternoon, Mr. Burcaw! Nice to meet you! How are you doing today?
Me: Nice to meet you! Thanks for the kiss, not awkward at all. I’m doing pretty well. I was pleasantly surprised by the flight of steps that led up to the main entrance, as well as the lack of a single elevator in this 43-story building. Also, thank you for scheduling my interview on the 20th floor. It was generous of you to only make me drag my body and 400-pound wheelchair up 20 flights of stairs. As you can see both of my legs are clearly broken from that adventure, but it’s fine, I don’t need them to walk, right?
Mr. Goldplum: My sympathies Mr. Burcaw. I didn’t realize you couldn’t go up steps in your wheelchair.
Me: (long pause) Oh, no it’s completely understandable. I make silly mistakes like this all the time! For instance, I shot your secretary in the face on the way in because I didn’t realize she wasn’t bulletproof. My sympathies, though. But seriously, I admire your company’s complete disregard for federal disability regulations. It takes real determination to give that little of a shit about other people. I will do your cute little interview today, but just know that if you don’t hire me, I will sue you. Then when I win and become the majority owner of Taco Bell, I will promote you to my new Cleaning Supplies Taste-Testing Department. So, where should we begin?
Mr. Goldplum: (Flustered. Also, peed his pants a little). Yes, of course. Why don’t you start by telling me a little bit about your previous work history?
Me: I’ve been a veterinarian at a local animal hospital for the past 37 years. It was a great experience and I think I have finally learned enough to become a corporate manager at Taco Bell.
Mr. Goldplum: Excellent. Most of our employees start out in the veterinarian business. Okay, now I would like to get to know more about you. Could you identify your biggest weakness?
Me: If your secretary out there somehow miraculously survives—by the way someone should probably call an ambulance, she seemed to be in a considerable amount of discomfort when I left her—she would probably tell you that I have anger management issues. She’d be right, but my anger management issues are by no means my biggest weakness. I believe that my biggest flaw is the fact that the Ecuadorian government has a $5 million bounty on my head. It’s a long story that I really don’t want to get in to right now, but I can guarantee you that the bounty hunters are planning their raid on this building as we speak. Foresight being 20/20 I now realize it was probably foolish to come here and put all your employees’ lives at risk, but I guess what you should take away from this answer is that I will do literally anything to get this job.
Mr. Goldplum: I have to ask you, Mr. Burcaw, why do you want this job so badly?
Me: On April 19, 2012… my sophomore year of college, I went to Taco Bell for lunch and ordered one of their Doritos Locos Tacos. I had been looking forward to it all day. In fact, I didn’t eat anything the day before just so that I would enjoy the Doritos taco even more. When I got home and unwrapped my taco, I was horrified to see that they had forgotten to put sour cream on it. Trying to remain calm, I searched my house for sour cream, but there was none to be found. I lost it. My world collapsed. It’s just not right. You can’t eat a Doritos Locos Taco without sour cream, sir. (Tears begin to stream down my face.) Something inside me changed on that day. Everything around me became dark. I lost my innocence. My faith in mankind was ripped away from me. I didn’t choose this life Mr. Goldplum, but as humans we react and adapt to what life throws at us. On that day I made a blood oath over my kitchen sink that I would devote the rest of my life to becoming a corporate manager at Taco Bell, so that no one ever has to experience the pain I felt on that day. That’s why I want this job, sir.
Mr. Goldplum: Great. And what strengths do you believe you bring to the company?
Me: Well, I can type pretty fast, assuming the person I’m dictating to can type pretty fast. I have great eye-hand coordination, but my lack of muscles leaves me no way of proving that. I’m an excellent liar. I once neutered 37 cats in one day when I was working at the animal hospital. If you don’t keep up on your vet stats, that’s the fourth best record in Michigan, where I practiced, since 1994. I can cross each eye individually. And last but not least, I like to consider myself a people person. Your secretary might beg to differ, but I doubt it because she’s probably dead by now.
Mr. Goldplum: I can certainly see that you are far more qualified than any of our other employees. Let me ask you, what do you find are the most difficult decisions to make?
Me: The ones where someone you love is dangling off a cliff, or a bridge, and you were able to grab them before they fell, but now they’re only holding on to your one hand with the tips of their fingers, and they scream stuff like, “Don’t let go!” which puts you in the awkward situation of explaining to them that there is no physical way for you to pull them up, so you have to decide if you should lie and yell something cheesy like “I’ll never let you go!” or just let them go and move on with life. Those have always been the most difficult decisions for me. I’m still practicing though, and I think I’m getting better at it.
Mr. Goldplum: I’m sorry to hear that Mr. Burcaw. You are a strange man. Tell me, who has been the greatest disappointment in your life?
Me: You.
Mr. Goldplum: I think we should wrap this up. Are there any questions that you have for me before we finish?
Me: What’s with the Easter basket?
Mr. Goldplum: We don’t talk about that.
Me: Are you going to kiss me on the way out?
END
*My voice dictation software turned “computer” into “Easter,” so I rolled with it.
“Mom, PLEASE!” I whined. She had to say yes. She had to.
“I just don’t understand why you need to be up on his porch,” she replied for probably the 5th time, starting to get annoyed.
“Mom, we want to have a HUGE battle and there are no good places to hide our army men down on the sidewalk. All you have to do is carry me up there, and I’ll stay there for a long time, so you won’t have to help me back into my chair for a while. Please!” I argued back, knowing how upset my friend Ben would be if we had to set up our toy army men figures down in his front yard where we always set them up.
“Fine, let’s go.” She gave in, and my excitement soared.
Sitting anywhere other than in my wheelchair was difficult, but my mom positioned me with my back in the corner of two walls on the concrete floor of Ben’s front porch. It was uncomfortable, but supportive enough to hold me upright. I promised her that I would be careful and that she could go back across the street to our house. I reiterated that I would not bother her again for a long time.
Ben brought out his enormous tub of green army men, and we began setting them up in awesome arrangements around his porch. (Looking back, I realize this is all we did. We simply enjoyed “setting up” the army men for battle, but we never actually played the “fighting” part.)
Then we heard the buzzing. A cicada killer swooped down from the trees above and landed on the floor a few feet away from us. Bees of any kind scared both of us more than a little. We froze. Unaware of what a cicada killer was at that point in our young lives, the two of us stared in horror at the biggest hornet either of us had ever seen. This beast could have easily stung us both to death and swallowed us whole with little to no problem.
I panicked; “helphelphelphelphelp” was all that came out of my mouth.
“I’ll go get your mom,” said Ben, bravely standing up and preparing to dash past the slowly approaching monster.
“NO PLEASE NO! She’s going to get really mad if I ask her to come back so soon! Don’t leave!” I cried. In reality, my fear of getting stung by the giant hornet far exceeded my concern for irritating my mother, but I was also equally afraid of being left alone to die while Ben went to find my mom. I am completely helpless when I’m not in my wheelchair. Even at the age of five, Ben was a loyal companion; he wasn’t going to leave me stranded on his porch.
The next several minutes are cloudy, probably the result of my brain repressing this awful experience, but somehow we ended up huddled in the corner together, armed with a large bottle of insect-repellent cream.
Naturally, we assumed that the cicada killer would want nothing to do with us if we smelled like insect-repellent… so we showered ourselves in it. We smeared handfuls of the white cream on our arms, legs, and faces, not even bothering to rub it in. I had Ben pour the cream on the top of my head and also asked that he put a few globs in the open end of my shorts, which were hanging wide open due to the way I was sitting with my knees up. Ben did the same. You could have smelled us from a block away, and our clothes were ruined, but we felt a little safer and ready to take on the killer.
No sooner had we prepared for the battle of our lives, the cicada killer decided to fly away.
Victory.
Well look at that, it’s 2012. If the Mayans are correct, we have about 11 months left to live. Kind of depressing, yes, but our impending doom also has a bright side; we all have one last chance to stick true to our New Year’s resolutions!
I, for one, plan on going balls to the walls to achieve my resolution(s) this year.
Why?
Because I have failed at keeping my resolution every single year I have ever made one. What kind of man would I be if the apocalypse rolled around next December and I never once had the testicular fortitude to follow through on the promises I make myself each New Years Eve? A shitty one.
(Just for the record though, my resolution has been the same for the past 12 years; to learn how to jet ski, so I’m probably being a little unfair on myself.)
This year will be different though. No more excuses. No more whining. But just to be sure I don’t give up, I’m going to put my resolutions on here for all of you. That way, if I don’t stick to them, you can brutally humiliate me. Fear has always been my strongest motivator.
Here are the things I want to accomplish before we all die in a fiery apocalypse:
1. Get a Job
I’m 19 years old and I’ve never had a real job, in fact, I’ve never really even tried to get a job. In my mind, I believe that I could probably find someone to hire me pretty easily, but I feel like they would only be doing it to be nice to the kid in the wheelchair.
“Sure we can give you a job… uhh washing dishes. You can’t do that? How about handing the dirty dishes to the dishwasher? Can’t do that either? Uhhh… well you can supervise our dishwashers!”
I have this horrible mental image of my future coworkers standing around the water cooler whispering about how much help I need to do my job, and how unfair it is that I’m being paid just as much as they are to do a fraction of the work. First of all, my future coworkers are apparently douche bags since they all meet up at the water cooler to gossip about me behind my back, but in reality they would be making an accurate assessment, because if you have learned anything from reading my blog, it’s that I need help with mostly everything physical. (Interestingly, according to this mental image I have, my first job is going to be a white-collar office job that still uses water coolers.)
Remember that one time when I said I’ve never had a real job? Well, I kinda lied. I did work for a text messaging service called ChaCha for a solid year before I was fired for “cheating.” I put that word in quotations because I maintain that I was just a very efficient worker. Basically this job required me to log into a website and answer random questions that people texted me. It was a cool job in that I could work whenever I wanted, and naked if I felt like it, but that was just about the only bright side. What ChaCha doesn’t tell you during registration is that a majority of the questions you will have to answer are from hormonally imbalanced 13-year-olds trying to find different ways to masturbate. These types of questions lost their comedic novelty within 10 minutes, added to the fact that I only made half a fucking cent per question answered, and you may begin to see why I started “cheating.”
Anyway, I do honestly believe that I have skills that would be useful to businesses out there. Too often do I read professionally written documents, websites, newsletters, etc., that are FILLED with grammatical errors and painfully awkward sentence structure. It amazes me that real companies are content with using third graders to write their official business documents. My point is that, while I might not be an amazing writer, I can definitely write well enough to benefit a company that needs to produce written materials. So, if you own a business, my e-mail address is shane.burcaw@gmail.com (wink wink).
2. Open a Fast Food Restaurant
However, this fast food restaurant is going to be a little different from the usual because our claim to fame is going to be that we treat all of our customers how I am treated whenever I visit a fast food restaurant. Because of my wheelchair and chicken arms, I am treated like a royal prince at most fast food places (not Taco Bell, their employees don’t give two shits about anything). Most cashiers act like it is a momentous and awe-inspiring occasion that I made the dangerous journey from my house to grace them with my presence and order a cheeseburger. They also talk to me like I am afraid to order, like I’m a fast food virgin.
“You want a cheeseburger and French fries, hunny? Ok, and would you like a soda with that, dear? Maybe a Coke or some Sprite?”
There is an older woman who works at the McDonald’s near my house who, without fail, gives me a hug and a large kiss on the cheek every time I stop by for food. I wish I were joking.
At my restaurant, all customers will receive kisses when they walk in… from me. Grandmother-type women will hold their hands and emotionally support them as they order their food, and when my customers leave, all my employees will scream goodbye like they might never see them again, because that also sometimes happens to me.
3. Eat More Blue Jello
I don’t need to explain this one.
4. Roadtrip to California
This one is more serious than you might think. I don’t even know why, but I have this deep desire to drive the California with my best friend Jesse. It might be to prove that I’m capable of surviving on my own, but I think it’s mostly because it would be so much fun. Of course, it would be far from easy due to the whole SMA issue, but it’s totally possible.
I imagine my brother would come along, since he is one of my best friends, but also because he knows how to take care of me better than all of my friends. The most difficult part would be showering and going poop, both of which Andrew has helped me with, but are nonetheless awkward situations for both parties. I could probably get away with holding my poop for the 10-day trip. Think I’m joking? A few years ago, my family went to the beach for a week during the summer, and for whatever reason my body decided it was not going to poop in Ocean City, Maryland. After seven days I was only slightly uncomfortable, so adding three more days probably wouldn’t be too bad. I’m honestly convinced that one of the side effects of SMA is being able to go for long periods without “excreting waste” as my doctor would say. My doctor wouldn’t say that.
My mom is going to read this and it will ruin any chance I have of convincing her to let us go.
I could leave my boxers on to shower and just hang an air freshener on my penis during the day.
Problems solved.
5. Don’t Drop Out of College
Although this resolution should probably go unstated, I’m adding it to the list because I can totally foresee my already questionable work ethic severely declining when the nonprofit starts to take off. I’m not off to a good start on this resolution. In my mind, I’ve already justified dropping out if I need to devote all my time to the nonprofit. However, if it does come to that, I don’t think dropping out will be too big of a deal, since that will mean the nonprofit has become extremely successful. Maybe this resolution should read, “Only Drop Out of College if You Absolutely Have to.”
6. Get My Book Published
If you remember, I had been waiting to hear back from the publisher about my proposal for over a month. A few weeks ago they finally got back to me and denied my book. It was slightly depressing but there was enough other stuff going on in my life that it didn’t bother me too much. Now I need to fix up some of the suggestions that the publisher made and rededicate myself to getting it published! Jeez, this is going to be a busy year.
7. Learn How to Jet Ski
Last chance.
