secret crush: papa pleasure

Pa Ingalls, we swooned over you via TBS in summers passed, when they used to play back to back episodes of Little House in the mornings. Needless to say, it wasn't the summer heat that had me sweating. But to our great disappointment, we learned from the wannabe-seductive-bitch-of-a-town-widow that Charles Ingalls is as faithful to his wife as he is to sporting that patch of golden-brown chest perfection; and therein lies the problem.

Don't you worry Pa, that one neglected button says enough.

pseudo happy

There’s this group of people out there who’s bodies seem to serve as a vessel for absolute happiness. They’re everywhere—that group of attractive religious girls from your high school, or people who are so busy with extracurricular activities and family vacations to have time for unhappiness. Really, just people who seem to be so content with their lives that there are no times of true darkness for them. Usually their sense of humor is pretty bad, and they tell a lot of stories that go no where and leave you bewildered as to why they’re laughing so hard. Of course there are things that bring them down occasionally, they’re still humans, but it’s in more of more of a “shit happens” kind of way, rather than an “I’m shit” way. But to those of us who think we’re shit sometimes, it really can seem like these happy types are living on another planet that we may convince ourselves we want to live on too someday.

Like they’re all on the same Royal Caribbean cruise ship together, gliding along the surface of what is underneath them—an ocean full of asshole dolphins fooling people into thinking they’re great, manatees who probably hate their bodies, entire societies of krill being destroyed left and right by giants. A little far-fetched, maybe. But for those of us who have come to terms with the things we don’t enjoy about ourselves; anxieties, insecurities, whatever--sometimes it feels like we’re trailing behind that cruise ship in some shitty aluminum boat we bought off of craigslist, unsure of whether or not we got swindled by that creep who sold it to us, worrying if the thing is going to fall apart, uncomfortable about all the wet sand in the bottom. Though this boat is obviously far less jubilant, I personally know I would be vomiting off the side of that cruise ship, and I don’t get seasick. While we all seem to be striving for happiness and success (isn’t that what we’re supposed to be doing?), that cruise ship is not it, but sometimes if you’re not careful the patrons of the Royal Caribbean can make you feel like it is. You think “I want that”—that carefree bliss they have—but it’s the shitty reality of the aluminum boat that makes for true times of happiness when they come. And when they go, and they will most of the time, you know the ins and outs of that aluminum piece of shit and you can reluctantly get it started. Cruise ship happiness isn’t real, and it’s not something you want. You’d be better off spending that money on countless 5ths of rum and bags of Pirate’s Booty.