Too far is not a thing
“Too far” is my siren song.
My blog is proof of this. It’s not a journal. It’s a day-by-day accounting of one person dipping their toe into madness and then deciding that one toe isn’t enough. It’s not enough to dip my own toe. I want your toes, too. All of your toes. In the madness. ALL THE TOES IN THE MADNESS, FOLKS!
Never in my life did I think I would type that I want all of your toes, but here we are.
Let’s double down for the sake of making a point, shall we? I’m not tied to the mast. The siren calls. Go further, woman.
Give me those toes willingly or I will slowly pull them into the water. And when I do, you might be wearing socks.
Okay. That’s weird and very far. The jolt of good chemicals in my brain tells me so. And the sirens tell me to go further. To threaten more and make it weirder.
If you don’t let me take your socked toes into the water, I will go further.
Admittedly, that wasn’t very good. I just threatened to go further. I’m sure you’re quaking in your flip-flops because it’s California in September and it’s not even close to sock weather. And, also, since I have a blog post to finish and I never intended this post to be about gradually transitioning from weirdo into toe bandit, I’ll put a pin in that thought for now.
But know that I could go further. Perhaps, when it’s colder…
Like I said, too far is not a thing. It’s a goal I will never reach—like the horizon or the end of the rainbow. It starts with your socked toes and it morphs into something bizarre and beautiful with ridiculous quickness. Too far is a challenge that I lovingly cultivate from little sparks into raging infernos every time I get the chance.
For a while, I thought I could be content living a life where I merely texted friends with weird shit but I get twice as many of the good chemical brain jolts when others pick up the mantle and run with it.
Can we do that thing AND dress up?
Can we do that thing AND dress up AND do it in public?
Can we do that thing AND dress up AND do it on a paddleboard AND be loud AND also make sure everyone within a city block sees it and raises a drink to the crazy women who might need an intervention?
It’s addictive to see others embrace the one-up-man-ship. And I run with some bad bitches, so shit always escalates. But why make this confession today?
And, more importantly, why the photo of Nicole and I sporting neon 80’s ski gear while sitting in a kiddie pool filled with bouncy balls under an oversized photo of a hot spring?
Because next time I decide to create a “hot tub” for an 80’s-themed Aprés Ski party I’m going to double the order of bouncy balls. Sorry, Phil. In retrospect, I see that I probably should have warned you that I had ordered a thousand ball pit balls for a fake hot tub before the refrigerator-sized box took over our walkway. I know that you thought that was “too far.” But honestly, that “hot tub” was ROCKIN’ and it was only half full.
Life is less boring with a wig and a diverse Amazon order history. I want to help others discover this love, too. But I know that you’re also tired from adulting, so I’m gonna help you out.
How?
By going further. From now on, I won’t just plan silly costumed theme nights with friends. I’ll make the plans public. And maybe lazy people who want to have fun like me and my friends who give zero fucks will pay me. After all, if it turns out that I’m just someone in a Mrs. Roper wig and jewelry creating a product that nobody wants, I still win. The chemicals are firing and failing is definitely proof of pushing the limits.
Maybe someday, as I'm lounging in a real hot tub fed by a real hot spring because I’ve sold other people plans that help them chalet all day, I'll introspect about why.
But not today. I have a website to build.
