Six-Word Memoirs: December 1, 2008

In which there are harp seals and six-word memoirs.

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Seals on a rock (source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Phoca_groenlandica.jpg) Rabbit rabbit! Or rather, harp seal harp seal, because that is what I dreamed about last night: a baby harp seal crawling out from behind our bathroom baseboard while I brushed my teeth. Its eyes were closed against the light, and it was so small and dirty I mistook it for a mole. It then flippered away to hide under my bed. I immediately turned on the computer and Twittered (which shows you how much I’ve been tweeting lately) “OMG NOW HARP SEALS. What next, elephants?” Or something like that. I then coaxed it out, found it to be quite friendly when relaxed, and shut it in the office to keep it away from Piper — my reasoning, oddly, had to do with the danger of feline leukemia, carried by the seal. (Sealine leukemia?) Then I found two more babies in the living room, leading to much groaning about the universe and its lack of fair play (sound familiar?), and proceeded to get on the computer and look up zoos which had recently lost baby harp seals. I had just found one which claimed to have had its harp seals stolen recently when the alarm went off, and I woke up.

This is one of the few times in my life that I’ve had an animal dream, particularly one involving my inevitable responsibility for lost/injured/pet animals. Animal dreams are famously over-analyzed in my family, since my mother has them all the time. In this case, the subconscious weight of my daily responsibilities (represented by the seals) is barely disguised, but at least I am containing and resolving them well (literally and metaphorically). Note, too, that the seals are babies, which refers both to the real-life kittens I currently have and the current “infant” state of some of my as-yet-unrealized worries.

Or maybe I am just full of Freudian crap. Could definitely be that.

Anyway. You are not here to read about my boring dreams and my even-more-boring analyses; you are here to read something overly-cynical and faintly amusing, but with a not-unwelcome touch of pathos. And behold, I shall deliver!

While sorting through papers (a pile of them fell on me; I had to sort through them just to unpin myself), I came across a list I’d made about a month ago. Remember that collection of six-word memoirs? It appears I wrote my own. Except I got carried away, as I usually do, and wrote about eighty of them. (Don’t laugh — my husband wrote over a hundred, as I recall.)

I’ve narrowed it down to a few favorites, but it’s still a fairly long list. Here it is:

  1. Happily ever after? Not so much.
  2. I guess it could have been worse.
  3. Live, laugh, love — then die anyway.
  4. Hey, it could still go right.
  5. Never learned CPR; too late now.
  6. Schreber had it worse, I guess.
  7. Never an ostrich; always a dodo.
  8. I saw it coming — too late.
  9. Look Ma, no hands! Or brains.
  10. The voices say it went okay.
  11. My mother was right, goddamn it.
  12. A trust fund would have helped.
  13. Tried to avoid the morons. Failed.
  14. They’ll never figure this one out.
  15. I won, but not by much.
  16. The flying monkeys helped a lot.
  17. I always went for the extra credit.
  18. Jesus loved me. It wasn’t mutual.
  19. Spring-loaded memories: Ow! My eye!
  20. The Devil made me do it.

I can’t decide which one I like best. Which one do you prefer? Maybe you should send me your own examples, so I could compare and find myself lacking.

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