Incongruently-ness

About two months ago, I was told that my condition is permanent. I was in the middle of excitedly explaining my future plans and boasting that even while going through all of the invasive, tedious and sometimes painful treatments and while dealing with the massive pile of crap that goes along with having any type of serious illness (notably for me was the vomiting, headaches, paralysis, etc…), I managed to obtain a graduate certificate in management accounting and was ¾ of the way to an MBA. My plan was to beat brain cancer, while simultaneously finishing my master’s degree, landing a real estate or property management account/finance position, working my way to prominence and then writing a book about how amazing the human spirit is (of course I would have to graciously use myself as the example). To which my doctors - after looking back and forth at each other for a few seconds - informed me that even if the tumor shrinks to a microscopic level, it will never be gone and that since I have one tumor, there are multiples of others that have just not announced themselves as of yet and therefore, I cannot ever actually consider myself in remission or legally tell an employer that I am.

This was news to me. From the moment I woke from surgery and could form a coherent thought, I have been working diligently on my health and education with the necessary aspiration of changing career paths to something more suitable for my new physical limitations and therefore, still be able to support my family and give my kids the life that I know they deserve. I know what you are thinking, suck it up wuss, nothing is ever carved in stone…except death…death is probably carved in stone. But you’re not dead…so suck it up and walk it off. I have been telling myself that exact same thing. I just need to come up with a new new plan. It’s totally cool, I have been creating new career plans every since my wife, waved that magical plastic wand (that smelled like urine) in my face and yelled Avada Kedavra (yes, we both read Harry Potter before we even had kids – because we are super cool), effectively killing my life’s ambition of having absolutely no ambition (just like Charlie Sheen, I was “winning”).

So, in the face of this new dilemma that the doctors delivered to me with all the critical detachment of an alcoholic father explaining why you are worthless and will never amount to anything, the kindly doctors have informed me of the new overwhelming obstacle that I have appropriately named Are You F-ing Kidding Me? Like Wiley Coyote, it is once again back to the drawing board. And lucky for you I have decided to share my amazing, I don’t want to say genius (but, I kinda want you to say it), talents of career (re)planning in the face of overwhelming obstacles and the repeated failures of reality to conform to or even comprehend my meticulously, yet simply, planned future of greatness and accomplishment (like that stupid Road Runner, reality appears to be an easily manipulated and beatable moron – but it can unfairly run through hte caves painted on the side of a cliff).

Anyway, brilliant career planning always starts with simply free writing about your strengths, weaknesses, likes, dislikes, abilities, disabilities, and of course, relevant experience. With this technique, it is easier to arrive at a more specified target as the writing continually cancels out meaningless unimportant routes and narrows to a point; like trimming the blurry branches of an idea to create a razor sharp and crystal clear conclusion on which to impale yourself on later.

Possibly the most significant strength that I possess, is the ability to perfectly plan and navigate life. Unfortunately though, I can only do it in hindsight, ceteris paribus and without the Road Runner of reality hitting me with trains from nowhere or dropping safes on my head. I am also proficient at finding Easter eggs a year after they have been hidden and I possess the ability, and testicular fortitude, to eat the contents of the year old egg without becoming overly sick (most of the time). I can usually generate the phenomenon of finding things in the last place I look in the first place I look, with an accuracy of about 90%. In direct relation, I can give statistical percentages 91% of the time with an 85% accuracy, at least 72% of the time. This is actually something that I can do even if I am 100% unsure of the topic being considered (I guess I can work for Fox News).

Also, I can make it all the way to the end of Rudy and not weep like a baby, but Cool Running's gets me every time (they carry the sled over the finish line people). I can lie convincingly, my children still believe in Santa Claus and I have an amazing singing voice. My children might be lying to me to get more presents though and my voice only sounds good in the shower when no one is listening (and that’s if there is enough hot water left after I get done with the washing and my practiced and perfected American Beauty shower scene). Oh, and last but not least, I can point out the flaws in every movie while others are intently watching it.

An unfortunate weakness of mine though, is the inability to commit to the last couple of paragraphs of any blog that begins to bore me and more often than not, I will switch directions before actually providing any congruent conclusion. But never fear, while writing these last couple of paragraphs and watching the Road Runner (the Coyote is a genius, why can’t he kill that idiot bird?), I have come up with a few suitable career paths and am going to jump right in.

1. Become a Busker – I do not have any notable street performing talents like playing the spoons, guessing people’s weight, drawing, miming or playing an instrument.  But, I do know how to get drunk, pee on myself, limp around, handle a pan and look absolutely crazy…it could work.
2. Sell Avon or Tupperware – My mom did this, but I am pretty sure that she only made an accumulation of Avon and Tupperware, not money.
3. Host a bake sale - If this is anything like selling candy bars for Little League, I will end up eating all of the profit and my mom will have to foot the bill.
4. Write commercials – This could work!!!

Domestic Beer Commercial

Two men (of appropriately different races) walk in to their apartment joking and playing around like an ambiguously interracial gay couple from an 80’s style sitcom. They playfully head to the fridge for a beer in attempt to fain manliness (in true life we all are aware that they would be grabbing a Mike’s Hard Lemonade or each other).

Oh no! There are only two beers left in the fridge – A domestic something and a green import of… who cares (in true life it would taste better – but this is an awesome American made commercial).

The one with the domestic brand takes a swig and immediately his pupils dilate. The camera zooms in through his dilated pupil and into his thoughts:

• Classic footage of baseball clips – Teenagers in Levis playing guitars in the back of a Ford pick-up truck on the beach – Surfer coming out of the barrel of a wave – Pamela Anderson smiling and running in slow motion towards you on the beach.

The camera zooms back out of his thoughts just in time to change directions and zoom into the pupil of the guy who just started drinking the imported green bottle:

• German soldiers marching in high step– the Zeppelin exploding – Augustus Gloop being sucked up the fountain and ruining all of the delicious Oompa Loompa chocolate – David Hasselhoff smiling and running in slow motion towards you on the beach (disgusting).

The camera zooms back out of his eye and refocuses on me just standing there wondering, as I am sure that you have got to be wondering, what the hell I am actually writing about and where this post is going. I am not really sure, but I think that this is what I got from it: When a woman hands you a stick that she peed on, wash your hands before you go out to dinner and don’t set it on the counter where you prepare food either, I have an enormous amount of pointless school debt on top of my ever-accumulating medical debt, Wiley Coyote and I both suck at planning and I like to write f-ing, because I must think that by only implying the word and forcing you to say it, it is somehow different than just manning up and actually saying it.

This post is really not my best and in fact, is pretty stupid. But I am still unsure what I am supposed to concentrate on at this point. Further education seems pointless. I cannot drive, walk, pick things up, concentrate for too long (even reading books or writing lame blogs causes seizures), rooms that involve motion of other beings (or inanimate things of complicated angles) makes me dizzy and even my ridiculous good looks are beginning to fade. Oh well. Time to go plan something ingenious and wait for the next piano to fall on my head.