I'm not dead yet! (Sherry is dead.)

You ever have one of those restless nights? Like you're exhausted in theory but not in reality?  And so you pull out the old iPad and think, okay, just five minutes on Facebook - five minutes! But then inevitably you go all Pringles on yourself and five minutes = five hours and now you're just uselessly profile hopping looking for... what exactly? I've no idea. I never know. It's always a mystery until I've found it. (Once, at four am, I found this bizarre series of photos posted by some girl I went to school with in Florida.  She still lives in our hometown and, apparently, she hand-crafts uber-realistic Nightmare Quality porcelain dolls, calls them "her children" and gets them professionally photographed.  In the descriptions of each, she writes delightful things like, "Crying for all the babies murdered each year by abortion." Oh, Florida.  You're still the greatest!)

Anyway. Last week I had one of those nights. I was lying in bed and I whipped out my iPad and noticed an ominous mystery status on an old friend's Facebook page, and a bunch of old photos: "Remembering the good times, Sherry. We will miss you!"
 

It took me five whole seconds to grasp this:
 

One: Sherry?
 

Two: Oh ,THAT Sherry.
 

Three: What was her last name? It's something, something with an M...
 

Four: Wait. Is Sherry DEAD?
 

Five: Oh God, I'm next.
 

This is what the improvisation world calls "going A to C." Or, in real life, feeling turbulence on a plane and immediately strapping your seat cushion to your back like a fucking lunatic and screaming, "THIS IS IT! WE'RE GOING DOWN!"
 

So of course I examined all the pictures. Young, impossibly skinny girls lounging on the grass in athletic shorts and these idiotic, embroidered Letterman windbreakers that never actually kept out the wind. (They were expensive and useless and we loved them.) The burned brown practice field, the instruments lying hot in the grass. One photo brought to mind a sort of silent film in my head: all of us gathering under a dirty tent, the sky like a trembling grey sheet. A thunderstorm had rolled in during practice (typical Florida) and we were huddled together. The thing was, I couldn't place Sherry at alll. I mean, she was literally in the photo, so I know she was there... but I couldn't place her in the silent film running through my head. And now she's just an image in a photograph.
 

Commence freakout:

How does it happen that the Universe randomly chooses to murder Sherry out of all the girls in the photograph and what does it say about me that I cannot even remember her and why is all the oxygen disappearing from this room and ahhh why Universe why are you so cruel and OMG am I next??
 

(Honestly, at this point I should have just closed the computer and gone to the kitchen for some goddamn Oreos.)
 

Because now, NOW I clearly needed to know how she died. Right? That only makes sense, right? That's the next logical step? A girl I know dies and I have to know how it happened. Also, which of my college friends on Facebook can I ask, because really is it that insensitive to ask people you haven't spoken to in fifteen years --except to comment "seen it!" on their laughing baby memes --  "So, who wants to talk about dead Sherry? Anyone?" (Answer: never do this.)
 

Which left me alone with the vast, cold internet, which, as it turns out, has zero answers and is even HUGER than you realize -- like Beyonce's basement huge. Like the universe outside of Earth huge. A 34 year old woman had a whole entire life and then died and the internet is so huge it has no idea who she is.
 

Finally, after much dramatic hemming and hawing my husband turned to ask me what was wrong.
 

"Sherry's dead," I said. 
 

"Oh man," said my husband.  Then, "Sherry?"
 

"This girl," I said, "We went to college together and I can't find an obituary or a funeral notice. No memorial statuses or funeral tweets or funeral selfies, you'd think there'd be at least that. How is there nothing?"

"She faked her own death."
 

 "Not funny."

 

"She didn't actually exist. This world is a hologram. We're all inside The Matrix."
 

"Please be serious? Someone is dead."
 

"Right, sorry." My husband went back to his book. "I'm sorry about your dead friend."
 

So I ignored him.  Went back to my ill-advised research gathering.  I had yet to figure out how Sherry died and I needed to know like Captain Ahab needed to chase his stupid whale. So I kept on clicking. Then at some point I  realized I myself had zero photos of Sherry and HOW COULD I NOT HAVE PHOTOS OF SHERRY??

Commence descent into total insanity.
 

"Now what are you doing?"
 

Lunacy, I thought, digging with my entire body into the recesses of the closet.  "I'm looking for photos," I said.
 

"At one in the morning?"
 

I shrugged. Kept looking.

"I don't even remember you mentioning a Sherry."

 

That was because I hadn't. Ever. And I still couldn't remember her last name or what she sounded like or whether we'd ever really hung out (had we??) but that didn't matter. I said, "We knew each other.

 

 

"Were you close?"
 

"Not necessarily."
 

"Then why are you so upset?"

"Why?" My voice dripped with admittedly melodramatic outrage. "Because a girl is dead." Melodramatic Forehead Hair Swipe. "She is dead."

"And?"
 

And???

I wanted to yell at him, And death is upsetting? And I'm actually terrified of dying and being reminded in any way that eventually death will happen to me, that eventually it will happen to all of us, every single person, we will all die, all of us becoming nothingness forever and ever and ever and oh my Christ on a Cheesit  I need a Xanax? And that, maybe?
 

"Listen," he said. "It happens. People die. The universe decided she was done here and so... she died.  It's sad, but... People die everyday."

"I know that."

"Like every second."

"I get it."

"Literally, twenty people just died. Right now. While we were talking."

"Okay."

"And, uh oh, ten more, there they go, just now."
 

"Okay, okay, just stop," I said. I dug out all my shoes, several shirts that had fallen to the floor, a basket of crap, another basket of crap, a rubbermaid container (of crap.) And more crap.
 

"This is a disproportionate reaction."
 

"Look," I said, "Sherry and I took the same classes. I rode a bus to football games with her. We shared lunch on the field together. Probably.  At some point. I'm sure we must have."
 

"You can't even remember!"
 

"That's not the point."
 

"What IS the point?"
 

"People stop remembering!"
 

And, ah, here we were, finally: at the apex of my whole Sherry freakout. This mind-numbing terror I have of disappearing, of being forgotten.  This idea that I (and any number of people) would only ever remember Sherry as teenaged Sherry, a movie-set facade. And eventually, at some point, even that facade would fade and nobody would remember her at all. And then, eventually, it would be my turn and the dead movie facade would be me. ME.

Commence total panic.

 

"Is that all?" asked my husband, still buried in his Star Trek book.
 

"Is that all??"

How does one explain being afraid of death to someone who is not afraid of death?

"I'm going to die," I said.
 

"I see. When?"
 

"How should I know? Eventually!"
 

You know, at least when you find this stuff out in person you can face mortality as a group, together;  you get to find out how the person died and then you can hug it out, reminisce, be sad, but also be glad you're not dead. Not dead! Everyone rejoice and eat finger foods -- we're not dead!

But on Facebook, death is this weird, detached, prolonged experience; a neverending memorial in which everybody and their mother writes "sorry" on your wall even if none of them has an actual memory of you, and the only thing that's left is a collection of photos, cat memes and status posts. This is the 21st Century tombstone.

"What if when we die we become nothing?" I whispered.  "And we disappear forever."

My husband set his book down.  He touched my face gently and said, "What if when we die we become turtles?"

I shook my head. "What if this is all there is?"

"Then you won't know the difference." He turned back to his book and said, "Because you'll be dead. You won't know what's happening." He paused.  "Unless reincarnation. That's a possibility. I'm pretty sure in a past life I was either an indentured servant or else I fought the Nazis in World War II."
 

End Notes and Good Advice: Just stay away from Facebook at one in the morning. Or all the time. Seriously. This is sound advice. Go make some tea or draw a picture or read a fucking Buzzfeed article on The 29 Best Cat Fails or even better, go out and DO something in the world-- but stay away from Facebook.  And maybe CALM DOWN already because whatever it is you're worried about it's just not worth it; life is way too short, you know? Cliche but true. And at least you're still ALIVE. Right? Remember that. Because Sherry is not.

(Until you die, anyway.  And that can happen at any time. ANY TIME!)

Christ, I need a drink.

** For Sherry.

"I'm not dead yet."
- Man Dying of Plague, Monty Python and the Holy Grail

New York City is a garbage pile. And other things.

Here is a photo from my honeymoon in Hawaii:

Both peaceful and lovely.

 



Here is a photo of garbage outside my office:

Times Square, the anus of New York City? Maybe?

 

How are these two images related? Well, one is a relaxing tropical oasis and the other is a shitheap.  Literally. And now that I've been to both I can safely say, with some authority... Times Square is in fact the anus of the United States. (Is it really?) Yes. Not just New York --the entire United States.  So, to recap: while everything below the Mason Dixon is a bleeding constellation of hemmoroids, Times Square is the anus proper.  Let me explain:

 

I don't hate New York City -- I've lived here for more than a decade now and, to quoth the great Winston Zeddemore (Ghostbusters - watch it), "I love this town!" However, loving and hating this city often goes hand in hand. Like best friends who fucking hate each other. I mean, yes we have the best pizza. We have the best Chinese.  We are the theatrical cultural mecca of the Earth (and I don't mean the mainstream pseudo crap currently demanding lunatic prices on Broadway, but off-Broadway, where the real goldmine of creativity and talent is.) It's also nice that we tend to band together about all this, as if New York is our shithead little brother and while we know he's an asshole only WE get to say it. You know?

 

It's just... every once in awhile I get to thinking about living in Hawaii.  I mean, what is that like? You know? Waking up to paradise every single day? To walk out of your home onto a white sand beach, or look out your window into the valley between mountain ranges? (My husband and I drove up through the mountains of Oahu, and the homes are effing spectacular.  Some built right into the sides of mountains.  Mountains! Meanwhile, the view from my apartment is the concrete wall of another apartment.) What is it like to leave work and just go to the ocean, because.... no reason. Because it's there.  What's it like to walk along the beach all the time? Would you actually go to the beach all the time, or would you avoid it because it's always there? Or maybe in Hawaii right now someone is taking a photo of the trash heap in front of her office and wistfully imagining what it must be like to live in a city far from her stressful life and the goddamn beach and all the garbage. Because paradise never looks like paradise when it's where you live, right?

 

Whatever.

 

That person is an idiot.  New York is the worst.

 

(sigh)

Changes abound! The Tragic Hamster Is Back!

The mighty rodent hath returneth! Welcome home! Hooray! After a brief four year hiatus, I have returned to my rightful place here at Tragic Hamster so I may continue my work as a blight on the face of bloggerdom. Everyone rise and slow clap! So what happened during those four years, you ask?

1. I have aged approximately four years, assuming a linear understanding of time.

2. I have not had a relapse of Coney Island Meningitis, which I'm sure is a relief to everyone (mostly just me) although certainly all my readers (all both of you, bless your hearts) who valiantly made the effort to wade through the Game of Thrones novel about Meningitis that was my last post here. In an effort to keep things more concise from now on, I'll be limiting my posts to 500,000,000 words or less. I'm sure this is a relief for all of us.

3. I got married! (Say what, Lady Hamster?) Yes, it's true! I am an old, married rodent now. A Matron of Rodentdom. A rodent owning rodent (marriage means ownership, right?) Of course, both the sass and snark remain despite everything. But more on that later. (For details on exactly how much more, please see above for "Word Count Goals.")

4. I have begun work, slowly but surely (more slowly than surely) on several spec scripts, the content (and/or lack of content) of which I will complain about at length here. So. There's that to look forward to.

5. I have finally watched all of Breaking Bad.

Okay. Now that we're all caught up, we can get back to the good work of posting lunacy and nonsense. You're welcome, America.