Batman vs. Broadway

"What is the similarity between a white woman and a tampon? ...They're both stuck up cunts."

The whole audience moaned and gaped at the obscene joke. I gasped and then chuckled, reveling in the collective: "Oh, shit!" moment I was sharing with the hundreds of strangers watching the same show. My buddy laughed, his giggles carrying over the mezzanine and echoing off the rafters.

Oh, live theatre. How I've missed you.

I sat through the entire production of "Clybourne Park" on the edge of my seat. The acting was superb, the writing was delicious and the stage production's resources were drool-worthy. At the curtain call I immediately jumped to my feet and applauded as the actors dropped their characters and became themselves to bow to the audience. Totally worth chucking 70 bucks at the TKTS lady for a chance to see professional theatre done right.

My friend, visiting from Chicago, was just as excited about seeing that production as I was. We chatted animatedly over the experience, each laughing again at the snappy dialogue and the well delivered monologues. I found myself jumping with excitement over the idea of one day being up there on a stage like that and performing with other dedicated, beautiful, healthy, strong, talented actors that I could learn from and play with effortlessly.

Being a Broadway Star looks so effortless when watching the one's who are: they make it look so easy! "Pshhht... yeah, I only did about 15 regional productions of this show, and I only worked at being told "NO." over and over again for, like, only 7 years. I starved, I begged, I waited tables and then waited for nothing, I faked it, I made it, and then I didn't..." but.... there they were, and there I was watching them hoping to God and all that is Holy to one day be where they were tonight: looking out at the room full of standing, clapping audience members.

I compared this experience to the one I had a couple days ago, while watching the most recent Batman Movie. The theatre was dark, relatively crowded. The sounds of munching popcorn filled all silence, and the special effects boomed and glared through the speakers to take the overall experience up another couple notches on the "extreme" factor. I was with my sister and a really good friend. We decided, relatively last minute, to go see the film. The tickets were 14 bucks (no IMAX, thanks) "14 bucks? What the fuck? How much was your show, Nat? Only 18?! Goddamn. Aw, what the hell, this is Batman, right?" I had heard from friends who saw the film that the experience was totally worth it. I was invested, I'd seen the last 2 movies and this was, apparently, another epic summer action flick... Then, 2 hours went by.

The guy next to me fell asleep. The guy two chairs down from me started picking his nails while using his phone's flashlight. The girl behind me was texting. I turned to my compatriots and began to snicker. We giggled throughout the film. My buddy got up to pee, came back and said "Don't tell me! 'cause, I don't care." We erupted into suppressed laughter. The actors on screen didn't hear us. Who cared?

At the end of the epic 3 hour saga of bloated, over saturated dialogue, terribly bad cliches, and about fifty shots of Anne Hathaway's doggy-style butt position on Batman's incredibly phallic motorcycle, my cohorts and I left the theatre with looks of thoughtful disgust. What the hell was that garbage? That movie had all the money in the world! The talent, the time, the people, the resources, the locations... and that movie was so incredibly forgettable that I felt a bit of bile in the back of my throat. One liners like: "Mom always told me not to get in cars with strange men." rang through my head and made me want to begin a petition  to help save the American public, and indeed, the World from the awful cliched fluff that I had just spent 14 dollars and 3 hours of my life on. I felt sad. This is the best? Really? Where did the talent go? Where did the feeling of pride go? I imagined myself in one of these mega-blockbusters and tried to see the virtue in it. Hathaway is a size 00 and was "kicking ass" when confronted with 300lb men (Oh, and she did all of it in 5 inch heels). Oy. How would I ever get down to a size 00 when even a size 4 seems like a really long road to hoe?

The Broadway show I just shelled out 70 bucks for: totally worth it. I saw the sweat drip down those actors' foreheads! I saw the work that they all put into that production! I felt revitalized. I felt invigorated! I felt like I could do that! That I wanted to do that! That I will do that!

And, Batman... Well. That's not the whole movie industry. There have been plenty of times when I've walked out of a theatre and loved every minute of what I saw after watching a really great flick ("The Avengers" was a fantastic action movie!) But for now, I'm putting my faith back into the American stage and I hope other's reading this post will see that live theatre is so worth the money.

10,000 Babies

I've been seeing babies everywhere. Little babies jumping in puddles, toddlers holding Mommy's hands, infants swaddled in body wraps wound around Daddy's stomach, little kids squealing with delight at a new toy or candy on the subway, and so forth. I don't think I have ever seen so many babies in my life! Or... noticed them all so vividly before.

When I was a girl, my grandma got me a doll and a whole wardrobe of clothes that was made especially for the doll. I remember worshipping that toy, telling her my secrets, sleeping with her, she was my baby. Her name was Diana and she had brown hair and brown eyes (just like me!) I'd pick out her outfits and dress her in the mornings. I'd brush out her hair and braid it if I felt really creative. Diana was my first time realizing that one day I could have a little girl to dress up and play with.

My perception of babies changed drastically when I began to babysit a couple babies last year. I had one infant of 4 months, one of 1 year and another who was just pushing 2. Caring for these actual kids was one of the scariest and most fulfilling things I had ever done. The fear of changing a diaper quickly disappeared after the first time, and I actually enjoyed feeding the little mouths and laughing at the joy on the kid's face when I would announce we were going to the park. There was a relief, however, when I would hand the kid back to the parents at the end of the day and then go on my merry way, happy to divulge in a late impromptu life with no string attached, no one to call and no person waiting for me to get home.

Actually having a kid... that takes real courage. I look at my peers who are getting married and pregnant and swallow a lump of fear. How on earth do you guys do it? Where is the decision process made (or not made)? I look at the decision to get pregnant and see it as a decision to sign my life away to the property of my child until that kid is old enough to move out of the house. That's a promise of at least 21 years! Much more if that kid becomes dependent.

I got scared twice. I remember the earth shaking, bone chilling fear when I realized the possibility that I could be pregnant. The possibilities would race through my head: so where will I live? Where can I raise this thing? Can I live with the dad happily for the rest of my life? How will I make ends meet? and then, the worst one: I won't be able to be an actress anymore. Done. Gone. Ahhhh! And then: No babies. No pregnancy. False alarm. Whew!

So, is this what it means to turn 25? BABIES! 10,000 BABIES! Babies in my dreams (I had a recent one in which one of my exes fathered an infant with a friend of mine and I had to babysit the kid!) Babies in my restaurant, babies in cabs, on the street, on the subway: everywhere! I also find myself giggling when I see them. Oh, she is so cute! Look at those golden curls! Those toothy grins! I could just squeeze those little cherub cheeks! And then, I heave a sigh and move on, a solo traveler and very grateful for that.

Burning Up Old Memories

It was later in autumn; the nights that start to really bite and nip at the holes in your clothes, and the coolness that creeps up on you when you think that the day was warm enough to merit wearing that light sweater and capris. I was a junior in college out on Long Island and had been dating my then boyfriend for just about two years. My boyfriend had a group of buddies he had known since they were all practically in diapers and occasionally the gang would get together and over a couple beers laugh and joke about shared memories.

It was also not uncommon for these social gatherings to happen around a fire. A fire pit in a backyard in Long Island is not unusual. There were parties were the hosts would build up a small fire and the group would gather and warm themselves while roasting marshmallows. Autumn fires are the best, in my opinion. Summer fires are fun, but generally the added heat can draw some pleasure from the overall experience.

Therefore, it came as no surprise to me and my boyfriend to be invited to what was dubbed a "Bonfire" by one of these childhood friends.

I don't clearly remember the How's and What's of what eventually got myself huddled up against my boyfriends chest on a deserted back road staring at the flames, but I do clearly remember what I was staring at.

It was a bonfire, alright. Although, one of the old pals decided that he wanted to burn an entire box of memories. Every single scrap of paper, ticket stub, toy, letter, picture and memorabilia from the relationship of 4 years that had just ended was in that box. The Pal came out of his parents' brightly lit suburban house holding the massive stack of stuff. He set it down on the concrete out back and asked the other three couples who were there to gather around.

In a very emotional speech, he said his girlfriend cheated on him with another girl, then left him, broke his heart forever. He had wanted to propose to this girl, but his dreams were dashed, and therefore: all needed to be burned. We were to be witness to this fire; this purge from this Man's life. He then doused the box in kerosene, lit a match, and threw the flame onto the memorabilia.

I'll never forget the smell of that burning plastic, the blue and green flames leaping from the different materials burning, the smoke rising into the air, and the orange light reflecting off of the eyes of the other witnesses as we each watched in silent horror as an entire relationship's material wealth went up in smoke.

I felt, even despite the heat from the flames, that I was colder than before.

I don't remember how long we stood out there, but the Pal wouldn't let us put the flames out nor would he let us back into the house until the fire burned everything to ash and there was no more flame. No one said a word. I clung to my boyfriend like a ragged flag on a school yard flag-pole in a strong wind. There was no traffic, no sounds, no other outside force on that deserted Long Island back-road except the cackle of the flames licking, melting and destroying the evidence.

To this day, I am still shocked at the hurt and anger that can pass through someone to make them do the things they do. I imagined, once, how it would feel to take what little mementos I have left of relationships from my past and burn them, only to shudder at the idea of such a violent act of deletion. I'll keep those letters and photos and ticket stubs locked away in a shoebox at the back of my closet, and try to remember the wonderful aspects of a relationship gone past its expiration date, rather than burn it all up to ash. I wonder, too: did that Pal feel better? or does he ever miss those pieces of evidence? I never asked.

Megawatt Smile

This bar is fun. Cheap food, great friends here... Oh. Wait. What and Who is that?

Hi gorgeous.

You've got a megawatt smile.

Oh. Your girlfriend lives in Yakutsk... How... interesting.

Do you see each other often?

No? Only once every 2 years? Oh, I see. That makes total sense.

Haha! You were a fat kid!? I don't believe that!! You're so effin pretty now! I mean, you've got a great look for the camera. I'll bet you're super talented. I'll bet you land all sorts of really great commercials. You worked with such and such and so and so? Really? Wow. Great. You know, I... uh huh. Yep. You're probably very talented, I'm sure. Siblings? Yeah? I have siblings too! We have so much in common! You lived in Boringsville, USA? I've been there! That's so... cool.

So, what the hell can I talk to you about other than yourself? You know, this is really funny: the other day I saw a clown on the subway and...

Yeah, I guess it is getting late, huh?

Silence doesn't suit us.

I'll just mosey back over to my side of the bar and pretend that I don't want to stick my head in an oven.

Ugh. Beautiful people: Sounds like I'll have more luck scoring one of the New York versions if I move to Siberia.

Relax

"Nat, just let it go."

I have always had difficulties with "Letting Go" of issues. What the hell does "Letting Go" even mean?

I'm suddenly confronted with an issue; a MAJOR issue! An issue that trumps all other problems. I think about it constantly. I obsess over the possibilities of what could go wrong, what could go right, how will my life be changed, how will I handle another similar problem, etc. Sometimes, I can go days on end thinking about this subject. So, when someone (just an innocent bystander to my life) tells me to "relax, let it go" I want to throw my hands up and vent about how they couldn't possibly know how much I have to deal with and how dare you try and tell me to relax!?! "Don't you know about how difficult it is when my boss snaps at me!? He's mad at me! He probably wants to make an example of me! Or Fire me! He hates me and wants to prove how much women have hurt him in his life so he is taking all of that out on me: I know it!"

And so it goes...

When I get that upset I find my chest tightening. I imagine that my rib cage closes into a defensive fort designed to block out all meanness and protect my heart from any attack. Yet, all I feel I accomplish is a really tight chest and a shortness of breath. So, what then? Has the problem been resolved? No. And I'm still worried and anxious and bothered.

There is an acting warm up I've been through a couple times when the person running the warm up will shout "...And now, release your assholes!" and as I've looked around the room I see a whole bunch of concentrated faces actively making an effort to relax their butts. "Yes, release all tension and breath, feel your sphincter become jelly, Ommmmm...."

Is that letting go? Its certainly a method of "releasing whats inside" that I do about once a day. But, in terms of actually making the effort to see the issue at hand, then acknowledge that it is an important issue, then decide how much energy I want to pour into it... That is the hard part.

Sometimes, I find myself sitting in bed, hunched over, picking at my nails and churning over a boy not texting me back as instantly as I believe I would him. He's an asshole. He's a jerk. He's this, he's that, etc. Then, as if I got tapped on the shoulder I'll realize that that problem is really not my problem. It's ok to feel upset, but I should Let it Go. Take a deep breath. Come out of that hunched pose. And relax.

Oh.

My sister read me a great quote today about keeping a mind set of "everything is as it should be" that by keeping your mind in a state of the present, in a state of "all will work itself out" one can be a whole lot more relaxed. I don't know if that's what one could call "Letting Go" but for now, I'm concentrating on that method. Life's too damn fun to be worried about the "what if's and the who's it-- what's it's" that can plague me into becoming a scrunched, tense, psyched out version of myself.

And I wish I could create a blanket out of this philosophy and then drape it over the shoulders of the people in my life (or myself for that matter) I know are going through an anxious period, and say "Let it go. It's OK. Relax. Everything will work out." And *Poof!!* shoulders slump, forehead relaxes and butts release.

No one likes a tense asshole.

Life in Sense-Mode

Looking at a clean surface in a bathroom. No dust. No grime. No sludge. No hair. Just: a clean surface. So clean, I can put my toothbrush down on it and not worry about gross bacteria.

Burning my fingers as I pop a piece of still sizzling bacon into my mouth.

Being covered in sweat after I ran for 45 minutes. Feeling the night before sweat out of me. Cleansing myself of all exhaustion and instead replacing the tired feeling with endorphins telling my brain that I'm rocking out.

Running my hands under warm water and washing off the night after a long shift at work. Rubbing my fingers together with soap, feeling the slippery bubbles gently wipe away any dirt or food, then wiping myself dry on a warm, fresh-from-the-dryer towel.

Biting into a soft, melt-in-your-mouth cookie and tasting the love and passion in the flavor. Savoring the buttery sugary texture as it slides down my throat. Ignoring the protests from a now distant part of my brain as my hands reach for another fresh treat to follow the first. Then, quenching my thirst with a cool glass of frosty milk I drink greedily and steadily.

Dipping my toes in cool water on a hot day. Wriggling my feet in the cool water, feeling the current tug at me, my body temperature dropping, the breath coming out of me slower as my body works less to keep itself cool.

Hearing the crack and split of a ripe watermelon being cut. Slicing off a piece and biting into the rich red fruit, feeling the sweet water gush into my mouth. Fully giving myself over to the crunchy refreshing river of juice as another bite brings more.

Peeing after holding out for SO long!

Blinking back tears as my eyes try to hydrate themselves from being in too much wind as I stick my head out the car window again and watch the world whizz by.

Feeling my heart beat and wondering if anyone else notices as I wait backstage for my cue. Breathing as steadily as I can. Shutting my eyes. Calming my shaking hands. Wiping away any sweat. Trying to hear any familiar laughs from the audience. Scolding myself for peeking through the curtains.

Kissing those lips I have wanted to kiss all night. The satisfying warmth. The tension subsiding. The passion growing. The wetness, the smoothness, the firmness and the tongue. The teeth. The hands. The cheeks. The neck. The ears. The hands. The Hands. THE HANDS.

My bed being made with fresh sheets. Staring at the mattress before pulling back the crisp new-like covers and slipping under. Being the first body to feel the newly washed material made even better if I have just taken a shower.

Relaxing back into the pillows and feeling my muscles relax after a long day. Feeling the pillows sag and shift as my weight falls into them. Throwing my head back and closing my eyes and following each breath as my lungs fill and then empty.

Philosophies

I imagine myself in two different pieces, not that the pieces are separate or that there are different personalities, none of that, instead I imagine my physical body which is the one that handles day-to-day wear and tear and then there is the "Other Self" or, what I refer to as: Emotional Body.

Sometimes, and for purely masochistic reasons, I like to look at my emotional body and poke at the places that are scarred over to see if they still hurt. 

There are times I'm surprised, I think that there are places still bloody and soar and unusable, and when I go back and look I realize that the pain I had assumed was there is no longer there, but just a healed over scar that only hurts if I really work at it. 

The Emotional Body is the one that others can't see, but if it were to be manifested into a physical body one would take a look and clearly see where there have been hurts in the past. "Oh, that must be where that bully told you you were puny and lame" or "that must be the scar from when your first kiss started dating someone else" etc. Everyone's emotional body is different. It's hard to put into words what I think mine must be like, probably similar to what I look like, but not in a way recognizable as human, per se. I guess, to get technical, the emotional body could be called a "soul" but I don't like to think of it like that.

Sometimes, I like to imagine I can map out my own perspective of others' emotional bodies. "They must not be able to handle this situation because they are still dealing with the pain of ____this. " I justify why people act the way they do by imagining that their emotional self is compensating due to their own strengths and weaknesses. 

Cells don't heal this body. There are no limbic systems, no network of nerves, the only thing that can heal this body and regenerate it are:

- relaxation

- routine

- therapy

- and (most importantly) Time.

There are times when I take a good hard look at my emotional self and wonder if the way I am dealing with a situation is because of a real pain, or because my emotional muscle memory has made me walk and move that way. Like, last night: I looked at old pictures from when I was 18 and 19 and dating my boyfriend at the time. There was a long period when I couldn't look at those pictures at all without my emotional body crumbling into a ball of blubbering sadness. I imagined, when that relationship ended, that I had lost an entire arm in that ordeal. I imagined that the emotional body I was dealing with was like dealing with a victim of war; altered in a way that could never be the same. I felt like it took a long time for that wound to stop bleeding, to stop making me sick and to stop making me feel helpless as the emotional body struggled to regain any kind of self reliance. 

After I finished looking at the photos I lay awake in bed and looked at the emotional self again. There were fresh bruises, yes, but overall, She was beautiful! Relaxed, calmer than ever, and shining with a self assurance I had never seen before. 

Oh, hi. Haven't checked on you in a while. You look beautiful. Time, you really did the trick. 

The Love Note

“I love you” was all it said. It was written with a careful hand on red construction paper and cut out in the shape of a heart. Attached to the love note was a box of candy hearts. The message was in my locker, tucked in on top of my book bag. I stared at the thing for a while, not quite sure if what I was seeing was a prank or an actual note. Who wrote that?!  I immediately thought, slamming the locker door and pretending that I didn’t just see what I saw. I was 9. Boys were gross. Even if it was Valentine’s Day...

Later, after I told just about everyone I could get close enough to, I went back to the locker and took the red heart out. My best friend stood behind me in shocked amazement. So it WAS true! I opened the candy hearts and took a bite, remembering quite clearly that I hated that chalky candy, but doing my best to give the brand another shot (candy was candy, after all). I felt the “Be Mine” crunch between my teeth before making a face and offering the offending box to my best-y. “Here, you can have this.” I said, detaching the box from the note and handing it off. My girlfriend immediately began to devour the box.

“Who do you think wrote it, Natty?” She asked between bites. Each “Love U” and “Ur Special” loudly cracking in her mouth. 

“I don’t know.” I responded. I looked the note over for a sign, did I recognize the hand writing? I checked the hall for any suspicious glances, but my friend and I were the only ones there. I mentally filed through the boys I knew and wondered who would be capable of such daring bravery. Dan? Bryan? Caleb? Hmmm. Maybe Caleb. Or, maybe Stinky Rick. Ew. No one liked Stinky Rick ever since he peed himself in 3rd grade. 

“Ew. What if it’s Stinky Rick?” My Best Friend speculated. She laughed a cruel laugh. “Yeah! Maybe it’s him! Ha!” 

“It’s not Stinky Rick!” I snapped. I was annoyed. Why would anyone want to go and do a stupid thing like this? ugh. Boys are so gross. Boys are good to play tag with because they can run really fast, but otherwise I found them a plague. I put the heart into my backpack feeling it get crushed under my books. 

I never found out who wrote that red note. But it was the first time I ever came face to face with the idea that there was someone who had feelings for me. What a strange realization to have at 9. Prior to that I would hurl nasty globs of damp sand at boys and run, screaming, back to the “base” where all my girlfriends would hide out so we could plan our next attack. The only “boyfriend” I kept was a neighborhood kid I’d known since diapers. Having a “boyfriend” amongst my friends meant status and maturity I couldn’t afford to not have. I kissed him once on the lips because of a dare, and then decided to stick to glob throwing. 

Years later, as I write this, it just occurred to me that that note might have been written by a girl, too. Maybe it was a last minute thought someone had after they’d handed out all the cards and they dumped the last one into a random locker. I doubt that, but I still think about that note. 

The Comic Books

Zombies were my biggest fear in my teens and early twenties. I would lie awake and imagine my world crumbling under the corruption of death. My recurring nightmares were always of me running away from a hoard of biters who had once been my family. I’d imagine zombies in the woods when I went upstate, I’d imagine zombies in basements, at work, at school, at home, etc. I’d shut my eyes and wrap my arms around the nearest friend/boyfriend and have them tell me over and over that it was all OK, there were no zombies to be worried about... all that stuff. 

Two years ago, if you were to tell me that I would be buying 75 dollars worth of comic books about Zombies, I would have given you the weirdest look and told you that I didn’t read comics and I especially didn’t read about Zombies. Yet, here I am in 2012 devouring book after book of “The Walking Dead.”

It’s funny to me now that I can sit and read about the terrible plight of these characters I’ve grown to admire and fear in this series. I’ve never considered myself a comic book reader, or even a person who could read comics without getting a head ache. I used to look at the nerdy kids in high school and college as they drooled over their Batman books and exchanged excited glances as they read during lunch break. That sort of entertainment never meant anything to me. I was too busy reading Lord Of The Rings or Harry Potter to really care about the Avengers or Superman. 

I felt the first inkling of curiosity for graphic novels when the Movie “The Watchmen” came out. I wasn’t particularly enamored with the movie itself, but I was fascinated by the world those characters lived in. Could that be a stuffing for the hole left behind after LoTR ended? Yes. I read “The Watchmen” graphic novel and enjoyed it, much to my surprise. 

I guess the summary of what I’ve come to discover is that not very deep inside of me exists a nerd of epic proportions that seems to grow stronger and more courageous each year, now to the point where, in a conversation with my room mate as to the best way to survive a zombie attack here at home, I calmly explained that according to the “Zombie Survival Guide” by Max Brooks, Zombies have very poor coordination and can’t climb stairs easily. Therefore we have an advantage being up by the roof and could therefore escape through the window so long as neither of us was bitten. My room mate looked at me for a minute before laughing and declared that I was: “such a nerd.” 

It was a proud moment. I’ve come a long way.

An Argument With Myself

Me 1: Stop grabbing at your stomach and looking in the mirror! You have more important things to think about other than how fat you think you look.

Me 2: Oh but I used to be so skinny...

Me 1: You didn’t think so then either. 

Me 2: No! No, I did...

1: Nope. You constantly looked at your stomach in the mirrors back then, too. Be nice to yourself.

2: But, I am the heaviest I have ever been. I feel so fat and blobby. Look at how my belly barely fits into these shorts I used to wear in High School.

1: So then don’t wear those shorts.

2: But, imagine if I could! I would be pretty skinny.

1: You wouldn’t think so, you’d just wish you were another size smaller until you just shrank into a tiny, bony, ain’t-no-one-will-fuck-you-cause-they-can’t-find-you body. Look at how beautiful you are! You’re gorgeous!

2: One eye is bigger than the other. 

1: Oh man. That’s it. Walk away from the mirror. Walk away RIGHT NOW. I’m hungry.

2: I’m not. Nope. In fact, I kinda like that I haven’t eaten anything but a bowl of yogurt today. It makes me feel like I’ve accomplished something.

1: You accomplished being hungry. 

2: Barely any calories! If I ate like this for the next few days, I’d lose a TON of weight!

1: YOU DON’T NEED TO LOSE WEIGHT! 

2: Oh, you’re just saying that to make me feel better. But I look at the girls on TV, and the one’s in the magazines, the ones who have no belly fat, like: they bend over and there is no roll, no nothing. They squeeze their tiny butts into cute shorts or sexy pants and walk around without having to worry about gross muffin-tops or any kind of jiggle. They’re the essence of beauty, and if I want to be in big motion pictures and be a famous, well respected actress, I’ll need to do that. I’ll need to be that skinny, to the point where my ribs stick out and I don’t need a bra to hold my non-existant tits. 

1: You’d be so gross. I wouldn’t want to be around you. No one likes those girls. 

2: Brad Pitt does. 

1: Brad Pitt is a weirdo.

2: Yeah, he is. 

1: Just continue being healthy, my love. 

2: But I can’t stop feeling like people won’t want me because of how nasty my belly fat is when I sit down! 

1: They don’t notice that, love. They’re there because of your smile and your personality and your ability to make people laugh. They’re there because of who you are. And you’re beautiful. Special. Wonderful. 

2: Oh. You make me feel so good. Why can’t you make me feel this good all the time?

1: Just remember how lucky and wonderful you are, that’s all it takes. Everyone should remember how lucky and wonderful they are more. I think that way we could celebrate how individual and beautiful we all are. 

....Now go eat something. 

2: Okay. I’m gonna make myself that peanut butter and chocolate sandwich I’ve been craving all day and just feel guilty about it later. 

1: Oy...