It’s Sunday, and so far today, I have been muy productive. Are you totally impressed by my bilingual abilities? You should be, because they are dope. The other things I can say in Spanish are “en fuego!” and “el gato!” AND I can combine my three Spanish words/phrases to make the very impressive “el gato es muy en fuego!” which may or may not be grammatically correct but makes for a humorous phrase that hopefully won’t ever have to be used in real life. It would be a funny thing for someone to pop into a room, say, and then leave, all random-like. I would like that. That should be added to every sitcom ever, don’t you think?
So anyway, very productive. I’m having a visitor tomorrow so I did some housecleaning, which included the very classy and not-at-all disgusting tasks of spot-cleaning cat urine out of the hall carpet; scrubbing grime from the tub floor; and scooping the litterbox. I know! The Queen of England has NOTHING on my glamour, NOTHING.
I had two things I wanted to discuss today. I have to get prettified soon and go see a matinee of a show that one of my favorite local actors is in, and it’s at a fancy theater so I probably shouldn’t wear my jeans that are ripped out at the ass and my “Zombies ate my Brain” t-shirt, as much as I love them both.
First: there is a huge problem happening locally that needs to be addressed.
Suicide by skydiving.
Before I start, I just want to say that there is nothing funny about suicide. I am not making fun of suicide. Please let me repeat this in case you decide to get up-in-arms and all “AMY IS MOCKING MENTAL ILLNESS YO SHE HAS NO FEELINGS OR HUMAN EMOTION.” Nope. Not the case. Actually have more empathy toward people with depressive tendencies than a lot of other things in the world. THERE IS NOTHING FUNNY ABOUT SUICIDE.
However, two people in the past three years in my area have killed themselves by jumping out of a plane. ON PURPOSE.
This is very, very distressing.
First, in 2008, this young man pretended to be taking photos for a school project and went up in a small plane with people skydiving. He then LEAPT FROM THE PLANE WITHOUT A CHUTE before the other people in the plane could stop him and landed on a house. And died, obviously.
This was disturbing on a lot of levels and we talked about it at work a LOT. I mean, I get people who want to end it all. I do. Things get overwhelming. But in such a painful, scary, and over-the-top way? That boggles my mind. You can’t have been thinking, as you fell, “This was a very, very good idea!” I can’t imagine you thought that, right? I get pills. Or even cutting. But jumping out of a plane? That takes sincere dedication. Also, can you even IMAGINE being the people who lived in that house. “What was that NOISE on the ROOF, Harold?” “I’ll go check it out OH MY GOD RUTH IT IS A DEAD MAN.”
But you know, I was pretty sure this was a one-time occurrence. How often do you get suicide by sky-diving? And it’s not like I live in a HUGE area. I mean, sure, it’s a big area, but it’s not the sky-diving capital of the world, or anything.
Then, last week?
And this gentleman was an actual skydiver, who had jumped over 9,000 times! Who taught skydiving! And he went up, left a note, jumped, PURPOSELY UNHOOKED HIS PARACHUTE, and then fell to his death.
This is even sadder. I mean, this was a man who wanted, I think, to die doing what he loved. So awful.
I don’t even know what conclusions to draw from this. I can’t imagine wanting to commit suicide in what has to be the scariest way possible, other than getting eaten by bears. This is just incomprehensible to me. I suppose people who have actually skydived might have different opinions on this? Maybe it’s a lovely way to go. Maybe your adrenaline is so high that you wouldn’t feel a thing when you hit, I don’t know. But I’m scared of planes and I’m scared of heights and I’m scared of jumping off of things (including small things, like curbs or steps, because, as mentioned repeatedly, CLUMSY) so I know if I were ever in a skydiving situation? I would not even be able to jump. I would stand there in the doorway until someone shoved me out or they landed the plane. No way I’d jump out of a plane. And definitely not to my death. Eeesh.
Oh, and sidebar, eaten by bears. Remember that guy that WAS eaten by bears? Do most people find that sad or funny? Is it awful I think he totally got what he deserved and the only person I feel any sympathy for is his girlfriend? THAT GUY THOUGHT HE WAS A BEAR. And that the bears were SIMPATICO with him. Dude, you so deserved to be bear chow. No sympathy. Sympathy for your poor, deluded girlfriend you got chomped along with you, but not with you. YOU ARE NOT A BEAR. But you ARE bear FOOD. I didn’t watch the documentary about this because I don’t care to watch crazy people who think they are simpatico with wild animals. Wild animals are WILD ANIMALS. You are insane to think otherwise.
Second thing we have to discuss. Personal space.
So I was playing around on Wikipedia. Sometimes I get caught in a Wikipedia link situation and I get trapped and forget where I came from, like a maze. I honestly don’t know what brought me to this, but I found this the other day:
This is a graphic of the personal space with which the average American is comfortable with various people in their lives. This made me laugh until I almost choked to death.
OK, so first, I have total personal space issues. Yesterday, I went to a concert. It was my first outdoor street concert. I’ve been to outdoor concerts before, but this was a free street concert thing. I’ve always had to pay for outdoor seating before. So I went in expecting it to be insanity. I avoid free things, because usually free things are full of looneys and/or people who are badly behaved and/or people who are entitled because nothing brings out entitlement like giving someone something for free. I’m going to write a scholarly paper about this someday and it will win a prize. Is there a prize for awesome scholarly papers? What if I include many pie charts?
So, outdoor concert. Not as bad as you might think, but my personal space was TOTALLY VIOLATED. There was a guy pretty much humping his girlfriend in front of me (who, apropos of nothing, apparently thought he was Robert Smith from The Cure, what with the hair and the stench of emo desperation and black nail polish and such); there was this weird group of throwback Woodstock hippies in front of me, one of whom was a man smoking a cigar as big as he was and that smelled like burning hair perfume for an hour and fifteen minutes; there was some kid with a soul patch (heaven and saints preserve us from affected facial hair) who decided smoking a GIGANTIC joint in the middle of the street with all of the cops milling around was a good idea (and this just tickled the SHIT out of the Woodstockians – “OMG, do you SMELL that? Boy, THAT sure does take me back. Ha ha ha. Just like the old days!” Shut up, Patchouli Joe, there’s nothing awesome about smoking weed in the middle of a crowded street with adorable children with painted faces and balloon animals running around, it’s just douchey) and there was a guy who thought this was a mosh pit who kept smacking the shit out of my arm as he flailed around aimlessly to every single song. I love the band, I loved the concert, and I actually didn’t have a breakdown (I think I might have had a bit of a contact high, come to think of it), but I did go home and take a hot shower because PERSONAL SPACE ISSUES.
(Oh, also? I don’t have an issue with smoking weed, per se. So again, don’t be judgey. I just think probably there’s a time and place. Also, I think it makes you very, very stupid, giggly, paranoid, and a waste of space, in 99% of cases. I don’t care for drugs that make my amazing brain stop working as quickly and efficiently as it does. And yes, I am speaking from experience, so you know what? Suck it, haters.)
ANYWAY BACK ON TOPIC FOR THE LOVE OF PETE.
This graphic says that the only people we’re comfortable coming in our “intimate distance” bubble are “family, pets, and very close friends.” And that bubble is EIGHTEEN INCHES from us. That is only a FOOT AND A HALF. You know who gets that close to me? My cats. My nephew. And people who want to get punched. That is SO CLOSE. That is all up in my face. No thank you. One time, a person I know who was chemically altered decided he was going to lick my neck and ears because he gets away with that shit with other mutual acquaintances and apparently the chemicals he was on told him it was a good idea to try it with me, too. He’s very old and I almost broke him into a million pieces shoving him away and running to the bathroom to Silkwood scrub myself. GAH WHAT THE HELL.
“Personal distance” is 1.5 to 4 feet and is for friends and acquaintances. Since I’m reserving my intimate distance bubble for cats and nephew, I’m grudgingly allowing people I love into my personal distance bubble. BUT DON’T YOU GET ANY CLOSER.
“Social distance” – 4 to 12 feet; “Public space,” more than 12 feet. I want to create a final category: “Keep the frig away from me space,” 27.5 feet. I think at that distance I won’t have to smell your cologne, deal with your nonsense, have you make weird eye contact, have you touch my arm while we’re talking (what the hell? Get that off me! I don’t know that you washed after you peed! GERMY HANDS OFF JACKASS!) or various other things that I find upsetting and make me want to curl up in a ball and rock.
What? Yes, I’m totally fun in social situations. Why do you ask?
Alright. Time to be pretty. Christina Aguilera says I’m beautiful so IT MUST BE TRUE. I suppose it can’t hurt to brush my hair, though.