I�ve long been a proponent of the saying (that I made up) that goes a little something like this: FUCK THE PHONE! Okay, that�s not it, really, it�s just that the phone rang while I was typing and it pissed me off. All right. The real saying that I�m always standing behind is this: our destiny isn�t always what we want or expect, but we must be prepared to recognize it when it arrives.
This isn�t always easy to do. I�ve had a pretty strong history of misreading the signs, I have to confess. Often I find myself jumping the metaphorical curb in my metaphorical Chevy Nova and plowing into a metaphorical stop sign while screaming at the top of my metaphorical lungs and listening to Carly Simon�s �You�re So Vain� on the metaphorical radio. Oh wait, that wasn�t a metaphor -- that really happened. Well, story still applies. I saw that sign that said �STOP� in all big-ass letters, but my foot fell on the gas pedal like a collapsing piano and I kicked that stop sign�s sorry ass! It was actually kinda funny, because I ended up with this two-foot iron bar wedged in the gears of my car and this nice family had to help me pull it out...ahh, the good times.
Where was I? Oh yeah, destiny. Anyway, what the fuck is destiny, anyway? Do you guys believe in destiny? I don�t know. I know I don�t believe in coincidences, so is that the same thing? I don�t believe in pre-destination, or any of that Calvinist bullshit -- like people who are all, "I can bang whores if I want to, because it�s already decided whether I�m going to Heaven or Hell when I die, so what does it matter?" It matters because you�re a dumbass, dumbass -- but I definitely believe that our lives have a very certain trajectory. I was supposed to go to Scotland, where I met May Day. I was supposed to live on my own in Chicago for a year. I was supposed to move to L.A. I�m supposed to be here at motherfucking Titanic Cruises right now.
But am I supposed to stay at motherfucking Titanic Cruises, is the question before the court. See, they�re offering me a permanent position now. Well, sort of. Well, they�d damn well better be offering me this fucking job, let�s put it that way. See, they�re hiring to permanently fill the spot I�ve been occupying for the last six months, and they want me to go through the same interview process as everyone else. Frankly, though, it only makes sense that they would offer this lousy job to me, though, since I�ve been doing it forever and I know how everything works around here. So they better offer me the job, and more money, too. But then I�ll have to decide if I want to take it.
And it�s like this: they�re just reaching the point where they�re thinking about offering me a permanent job, and I�m just reaching the point where I�m considering moving to Vegas and becoming a whore. I could be a good whore, I think. Well, maybe not. I could be a Julia-Roberts-in-Pretty-Woman style whore. Like, the hooker with a heart of gold who ends up falling in love and being redeemed before actually becoming sullied by the world�s oldest profession. But really, I�d have to meet my Richard Gere within my first few tricks, or else I�d be all skanky and gross and tainted, you know? I think if I was a whore in a movie, I�d be the kid that ran away from his boring but loving family in Iowa and ended up on the street. My best friend would be a hardened junkie who was too far gone to be saved, but would eventually fall in love with me because I�d be sweet and innocence and all that shit, and then he would die when a rough trick shot him up with bad junk and it would scare me straight (so to speak), and I�d end up going to business college and getting a degree and owning a bookstore or an antique shop or something, and one day I�d pass by the alley where I used to work and I�d see the homeless whore children and I�d feel bad and give them some money or something in memory of my dead, junkie, whore friend. Because I�d still have those solid, midwestern values, you know? Even though I was a whore once.
I didn�t think this cruise thing was my destiny, though. When I�m sitting on the wrap-around deck of my groovy Malibu pad and sipping a mint julep while speaking to the editor�s of GQ�s �25 Most Eligible Bachelors� story, I don�t want to be like, �So, I work as a fucking receptionist at this assy cruise place, right? And I�m totally broke. But look, I got this new tattoo!� That�s not going to be very impressive when everyone I hate picks the issue up and have to eat their hearts out when they see how desirable I am. But is this my destiny? No one sent me a memo or anything. Thank goodness we have Miss Cleo!
And speaking of reality TV, let me just say how much I wish I was Miranda! Like, yesterday when I told her I had to use the bathroom and she literally pushed me out of the way so she could use it first, leaving me behind to watch the phones and use asana postures to try and close off my bladder, I wanted her dead. But today? She�s the coolest. You guys know how the world is ending, right? And all the signs are in place? Well, Miranda was watching the sure decline of western civilization the other day, and totally thought one of the rejected guys was really hot. So she posted on a message board about it, and guys? He wrote her back. And asked her out. Yeah, that�s right. Miranda has a date with a reality dating show reject. It doesn�t get much better than this.
And that, children? Is destiny at work.