I'm Probably Wrong. And that's Cool


I don’t need to be right. I am perfectly fine being wrong. And I rarely need anyone to agree with me. I have some pretty contrarian opinions. I think the Beatles are overrated. I think tapas sucks. I’ve never found George Clooney or Brad Pitt attractive. I have voted Republican twice, although obviously not in the last election.  So whenever someone tells me that I’m missing out or I’m wrong I reply “I don’t know. Maybe. Probably.”

I’m probably wrong but I hate Oprah. I hate her the way I still hate Tiffany Taylor from 4th grade because she insulted my mother’s sandwiches. My mother makes lovely sandwiches. And just because she doesn’t make happy faces and hearts in mustard, that doesn’t mean she doesn’t love me. The opposite actually. It means she loves me so much that she wants me to have even condiment distribution. As I write this I feel like Oprah is also the kind of person who would be snide and superior and impugnsomeone else’s sandwich. Don’t let her fool you with her faux female empowerment jazz. She used to invite people on her show and display them as freaks, or lecture them, or inject herself into their stories. 

I recently joined Weight Watchers and I love it. But I hate that Oprah is not only their newest spokesperson but also a shareholder. So every month when I pay my dues I’m doing my part to line her golden pockets with more lucre from the suffering of others. She claims she bought 10% of the company because she believes in it. I believe she bought in because she saw something good and potentially lucrative and she needed to put her suction cupped tentacles on it. 

I get mad that she bellows. You can give someone a car or meet a celebrity without bellowing. Inside voice Ms. Winfrey. And she’s a college dropout who never shuts up about the value of education. She’s a billionaire without the degree. But everyone else needs to go and learn to be accountants. 

She puts her smug mug on the cover of every issue of her magazine. Think for a moment of what kind of self-involved prick puts their own face on the cover of a magazine named after herself. It’s like every month she’s saying, “Don’t you just worship me. I know you love looking at me. I’m your favorite. Read this magazine about what books I’m reading and fashion tips and recipes and fantasize about a wind machine and a team of highly skilled makeup and hair professionals making you too look like a weird plastic alien version of yourself.” For goodness sakes, she bought a cable news channel and turned it into another monument to her own ego. Ted Turner, Rupert Murdock, et al own cable news stations but don’t make themselves part of the programming. They don’t act like they’re Jesus come to save us all from ourselves. HATE. HATE OPRAH.

I’m probably wrong but I am not going to do the Whole 30 diet. It looks depressing and restrictive, and the kind of thing I’ll be talking about in a tone of voice usually only heard from a Vietnam Vet who saw his buddy’s legs blown off by a landmine in Da Nang. If you want to see what a broken woman looks like, I mean really look into the abyss and have the abyss look back, ask me about the three months that I was on The Zone. Not enough carbs and my brain went wacky. My mind eventually  turned against me. I came home one day and told my brother that I found a particular tree in our neighborhood threatening. I went into ketosis and would wake up in the middle of the night disgusted by the smell of my own breath. I am not like Oprah the Annoying, hollering “I love bread” like it gives her multiple orgasms and took her on a pony ride. I am in fact pretty ambivalent to bread and have never eaten a piece ‘just cuz’. And pasta is okay. I guess. I mean if you put tomato sauce and cheese on a baby I’d probably eat it. I am not a carb junkie. Although I am addicted to refined sugar. And people say the Whole 30 will cure me of that. Of course it will. When my body is drained of carbs, preservatives, alcohol, beans, and the capacity for human joy, I will probably  be fine with skipping donuts.  But I do need to eat grains. The Whole 30 diet scored dead last when it was judged by a committee of dietitians. So when my OB/GYN suggested it last week, which is weird, stay in your lane lady, I was polite. But I also wanted to narrow my eyes and sneer “Et tu, doctor? Et tu.” HATE. HATE FAD DIETS. 

I’m probably wrong not to want to have children, but I’m cool with it. People keep telling me that I’ll wake up one day and regret it. And I tell them that my life is full of regrets. The last words I said to my dead father were “Can you bring me back a Pepsi?” I assure you  that shit haunts me. I lied to my mother about taking summer classes and followed Blues Traveler on tour. Not in any professional or groupie capacity. I just went to all their shows and made the band occasionally acknowledge my humanity. I will regret that until my dying day. My life is full of regret. And yet I get up each morning laughing and dancing. If you make choices you will have regrets. But if I don’t have a child the only person I might be hurting is me. Whereas if I make an entire human being “just in case” that involves as few as two additional people but could potentially harm millions. Let me paint you a picture. I decide to use my one last partially spoiled egg to make a baby. And I’m kind of mean to it. Not abusive, just not pleasant. You know, like I am to most people. I’m not exactly warm and affectionate and kids like that sort of thing. The kid hates me. And he or she becomes a serial killer that murders chubby black women using a knitting needle while calling them mommy. One of the people the kid murders is Oprah. Not because I asked them to. I never would. I’m a non-violent person. But the kid does it in a misguided attempt to please me. Oprah’s millions of acolytes fall into despair and stop loving their children. And entire generations of pitiful broken people roam the earth. They continue trashing the planet but don’t have the ambition to build ships to escape Earth so the human race perishes. All because my friends want to do Mommy and Me swim class with me. I order half onion rings/half fries because I don’t want to feel like I’m missing out. I don’t make people. HATE. HATE PRESSURE TO REPRODUCE.

I am probably wrong but I would rather be flabby and die young than ever do Crossfit or Orange Theory. The thought of exercising until my body is so stressed that I go into kidney failure or need to have my ACL repaired makes me long for the early death of the obese. It makes disease and infirmity feel like the warm embrace of my mother after a long separation. I could be wrong but single digit body fat and abs worth splashing all over Instagram seem too high a price to pay to spend exorbitant amounts of money to participate in what looks like a dystopic nightmare with EDM music. I have never known a happy person who lives that life. They’re not depressed. Just lacking in a playful whimsy that convinces me that the pleasure center of the body isn’t the brain, but the tummy and butt. And the more belly and bottom you have the more delightful and giggly you’ll be. HATE. HATE GROWNUP GYM CLASS.

I might be wrong about choke sex. What is so hot about attempted murder? Oh baby, I’m killing you, Oh no I’m not. I stopped before you passed out. Oh yeah, the way your brain is being deprived of oxygen and your brain cells die does increase the sensation. But is it worth it? Love means never having to say “The safe word for I’m about to die is 'Tangerine'. So you should stop then” Sorry. My Mama didn’t raise no Danger Slut. And I mean Danger Slut as a compliment. Lorraine McFly is one of my favorite movie characters and she is a documented danger slut. She wants any guy who stands in front of moving vehicles and gets into fist fights. HATE. HATE PRESSURE TO NOT BE VANILLA.

I usually turn off the comments on my posts because my old blog received an abundance of racist death threats. But I’ll allow comments on this one so you can tell me I’m wrong about one of these things. And I’ll say, “Probably. But that’s cool.”