That’s right, you guessed it, I’m gonna eat a shit ton more ants.
I’m gonna eat them off a tree.
I’m gonna eat them off a coconut.
I’m gonna eat them off one of those classy, slanted desks from an antiques shop.
I’m gonna eat them off a globe, off a paperweight, off a ship in a bottle.
I’m gonna eat so many ants, you would think it’s what I’ve been put on Earth to do, just Hoover up ants like the weirdest thing in the world.
It’s like God was like, “Well, I think I overdid it with the ants.” And then had the idea to send some insane, bulky creature down to take care of them. And that’s me.
And the thing is, I love it!
If you were put on Earth to eat ants, you would love it, too.
You’d look at a menu and be like, “This is all fine and good, but I don’t see any ants on here.”
If you were playing chess, you’d be like, “This is all fine and good, but I don’t see any ants on this chessboard.”
If you were in charge of designing personal checks with all kinds of faint backgrounds, you might have a reflective moment, thinking, “This is a great cloudscape I’ve created, but I wouldn’t want to live there, because there probably wouldn’t be any ants.”
You’d be on the phone with your mom and you’d be like, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, sure, sure, sure, I’m fine. I’m fine. What about ants?”
You’d look at yourself in the mirror and think, “I’ve got a one-track mind, and I don’t care!”
I love ants, and that’s me, and, yes, I’m a work in progress, but I gotta be true to myself.
O.K., here’s my one rule. If I see an ant, I have to eat it. “If you see something, eat that thing” is my motto (when that thing is an ant).
If I see an ant on a basketball, I’m gonna eat it.
If I see an ant on the arm of an Adirondack chair, I’m gonna eat it.
If I see an ant in Meryl Streep’s hair, I’m gonna seek it out and eat it.
If we’re on a tour in a historic house, and you see an ant walking up some mottled-glass window, don’t even worry about it (because I already ate it).
I am, in a general, low-key, ambient way, concerned about the whereabouts of all ants at all times.
That’s just my way.
And something tells me that 2014 is going to be when I really come into my own.
Have a great New Year! (Unless you’re an ant.)
A FEW THINGS I’D LIKE TO CONVEY WITH MY FUNKY LIZARD BROOCH
That I have a no-holds-barred sense of humor. That I’m always tappin’ my foot in step to an earthy world beat. That I don’t take anything too seriously, especially my eczema.
That I’m up for anything. Want to go on a hot-air-balloon ride in the middle of the day, even though it’s a workday? Sure. Want to do cartwheels in a meadow? I’m on it. Want to do some off-the-cuff portraits of the homeless? Well, actually, I’m sort of busy. But, for instance, if I was walking down the street, and my shadow separated from my body and started doing a funky, downbeat two-step. Yeah, I’d be into that. I’d join right in. Also, I’d be into it if my shadow went and got me some eczema cream.
I know that if this funky little lizard came to life, we would do all sorts of things together. We’d sashay across a giant chessboard. We’d wait for each other in sizzling plazas in the Southwest, like normal people do. We’d tell jokes and casually start juggling when we were walking down the street. We’d visit an aquarium and walk by a shark tank, like, “Been there, done that.” And then maybe, when the tour guide stopped talking, I’d step in and say, “Those were your mom’s shark facts. You wanna hear the real deal? Follow me.” And everyone just naturally would.
We would be such buds. We’d get in on everything together. Like, when a bunch of kids are in a field raising a parachute and then pulling it down and sitting under it, we’d get in on that. Like, if someone were leaning casually against a sculpture in front of a technical college as if they’d really found a path in life? We’d get in on that. If someone were throwing a bunch of neon paint against a hanging white sheet as part of a music video, we would most definitely get in on that.
We’d do all the things a couple of successful adults, one of whom wasn’t saddled with an incurable skin condition, would do.
What else would I like to convey with my funky lizard brooch? Well, say I’m in the break room at the office, waiting in line to heat up some pasta, and someone cuts in front and now I have to wait even longer and I’m really hungry? Well, instead of being like any old Joe, gettin’ mad, I’d mosey on up to the person and step in front of them, and then if they had anything to say to that I’d turn around and scream: Do you know what it’s like to live with a debilitating case of eczema?! I’m losing my mind! I am losing! My! Mind!
See if that doesn’t work. In fact, I find that wearing a lizard pin and screaming about your eczema pretty much breaks up most situations.
So, to sum up, what does my funky lizard pin say about me? That I’m one chilled out person. That I’ve got a great, offbeat sense of style. That I’d be a cool but tough guard at a frog crossing. That I’m not easy to faze. And, for instance, I am unfazed if my chair makes a weird sound whenever I push it back. That, in particular, is not fazing me or driving me completely crazy. That I have an innate understanding of jazz music. That I am totally, completely, one hundred per cent fine, and everything in my life is going exactly as planned.
