Last night, after a few months of thinking, I came to a decision about my life that I am absolutely overjoyed about but I’m also so pants-shittingly terrified that I’m afraid before the New Year I might actually shit my pants at least ten times over and I don’t think I’ve got a pants budget big enough to replace every pair of pants I ruin with poop. And no I am not going to just wash my poop pants so I can wear them again. That’s just gross. I don’t want to be known as the girl who’s wearing poopy pants. It’s bad enough that Womb Mate has been calling me Auntie Pissta because my nephew pissed ALL OVER ME RIGHT AFTER I PUT MY NEWLY BOUGHT OUTFIT ON! Like, god, babies are so fucking rude. I cannot handle being called Auntie Poopta too because of wearing pants that were previously pooped on.
Wow, that poop metaphor really got out of hand really fast.
Oh, what is that? You want to know what that life decision I made is that might possibly make me shart myelf?
I totally changed my Major in University from Elementary Education to Film. Yes, FILM. Why? BECAUSE I AM BAT SHIT INSANE, that’s why.
For a long time I wanted to become an Elementary School teacher because I knew I would be good at it because I have this amazing ability that no matter how annoying a little kid is I don’t punch them in the face. It’s a true talent because the amount of times I’ve punched a kid in the face? Zero. Anthony Hopkins? Yeah, he has totally back-handed a child before on screen. It makes me happy that I’ve beaten less children than Anthony Hopkins. Consider that crossed off my bucket list.
I could be a good teacher but I know I can be a great film person – either it be behind the camera during the filming process, or editing it all together in post-production because it’s something I’m stupidly passionate about. I love everything about film and I want to be a part of that world.
Since going to University full-time is coming up in the new year opposed to doing University full-time and working full-time is coming to a close, I started to panic about what I was doing with my life. Was it what I wanted until I died? Could I handle it for years? Would I be happy? Which educational choice wouldn’t end up with me murdering someone or punching children?
Obviously, Film was the answer.
And then I had to tell my dad that I’ve changed my major because even though I am paying for my education myself, he really fucking wanted a teacher in the family and now that I’m dropping the mantle to go to artsy-fartsy Art School it was going to break his heart and destroy his life and probably cause him to drop kick the neighbours ducks one by one until there was no more ducks to drop kick and only angry neighbours left.
Needless to say it was a call I was dreading and all week I’ve been putting it off in hopes that maybe I don’t have to tell him and when I graduate he can be surprised then when he has to show up to said Artsy-Fartsy Art School to congratulate me. Or drop kick me like a duck while angry neighbours watch in disbelief.
Last night I called him and when my mother answered I had to ask her “is Dad in a good enough mood to have all his dreams broken and shattered because someone is going to poop on them?” and then having to tell my mother “please don’t panic it’s not like I’ve got cancer or something I’ve just decided to go to Film School but maybe that’s a type of cancer but either way, Dad’s going to take it hard.” And only when I had to convince her I wasn’t blowing smoke out of my ass was I able to talk to my father and ruin his dreams and crap on them. I expected him to react like someone who had just been crapped on.
Badly, you know?
“What do you want?” He said with barely concealed boredom that I’m pretty sure was supposed to come off as unconcealed excitement, “I’m watching television.”
“Dad,” I said in a voice that showed him this was a very serious important matter that he should be sitting down for, “I’ve got something horrible to tell you that might crush your dreams and kill your hope.”
“Make it quick,” he said in suspense, “my show is about to start again.”
“I’m no longer going to be a teacher dad, instead I’m going to Film School and majoring in Film.” And then I held my breath because I knew I was about to hear my old man cry like he had never cried before because his best child just crapped on him. I was prepared for the awkwardness of hearing your father cry but all I heard was a grunt and the television in the background.
“Well, as long as you can get work but I’m watching All In The Family and it’s the episode Edith dies and I haven’t seen it in 30 years so I’m going to go. Have a good night, bye!” and then I heard the silence and the dial tone as he hung up on me to go watch television.
I looked at my phone for a minute as if it were a grenade or like it was going to poop on my hand before I shook my head and shrugged.
That was fucking easier than I had thought and I learned a very valuable lesson.
When I’ve got to tell my father about my eventual cocaine habit after I attend Film School (because that’s what you do in Film school, right? Cocaine?), I should do it while he’s watching retro-television.