THEN IT HAPPENED.
A sharp prick and then a warm flood threading down my fingers. I shakily withdrew my hand, saw all of the blood, and immediately got in to the fetal position on the floor, because that is the most obvious thing to do when one is bleeding out. It really stops the flow, you know.
This was just the perfect way to come back to Berkeley after being with my husband for an entire weekend. My morbid mind wondered if I could bleed out via thumb. I decided that this was probably impossible. Getting up off of the floor, still dizzy from the effort of being dramatic, I staggered to the bathroom to see what had cut me. The evidence was still embedded in the tender pad of my finger: a broken Christmas ornament in the shape of a chocolate.
Almost death by chocolate.
This story only serves the purpose of helping me embrace my dramatics. People always say: "Oh, she is sooo DRAMATIC," but it is really a bad thing? I mean, I am not hacking anyone to pieces in my guest room...I am taking a story about cutting my finger and making it somewhat enjoyable. To me and my 6 readers. I am funneling my pain over living apart from my husband in to something creative and very self serving. Being dramatic is awesome.
I had a friend over for cake tonight. (I do that frequently. I have this thing for cake. And friends.) I lit these sparking candles on the cake for her, and as I did I was telling her about my Aunt who is "Like me, but more loud and pretty if you can imagine." During my birthday this past year my Aunt lit candles on my cake with a devilish grin on her face. We all had to duck for cover because THEY WERE NOT CANDLES. THEY WERE ACTUAL SPARKLERS. LIKE, FIRECRACKER VARIETY. So, maybe we didn't actually duck for cover, but we sort of did. See? It is a dramatic story. We flinched and the sparklers burnt the top of the cake, and it was a dramatic story only made more dramatic by my enhanced re-telling. Brett always says to people that first meet me to listen to what I say and divide it by 50%. As in: "OH MY GOD, I ATE, LIKE, 7 BLOCKS OF CHEESE TODAY." Reality? I ate 3 1/2. Or 4. Still impressive. But more impressive doubled.
I wish he wouldn't give my secrets away.
The same friend burst in to laughter this evening when I started a story about my fish. "OH MAN. DID I TELL YOU WHAT HE DID THE OTHER DAY?" This one sentence, (yes, spoken in ALL CAPS. THAT IS HOW I SPEAK,) sent her in to a fit of giggles. (Or, if you are going by Brett's measurements...a half fit of giggles.) When I demanded to know why she was laughing since I had not even gotten to the good part she just shook her head and said: "It's a fish! You're talking about him so dramatically, like he did something as a real person or something!" The truth was, he did do something as a real person. He woke me up in the middle of the night because he was pulling out all of his plants, swimming backwards, spitting them out of his mouth, and watching me as they floated to the top, clogging the filter like: I hate those fucking plants. But her glee over said story made me realize that I was sort of proud that I was a tad dramatic. I'm happy I can call her up and tell her in blow-by-blow detail about dying by chocolate, knowing she will giggle through my (exaggerated...maybe) rendition. We add spice to food...why not to life?
So, pepper your stories with an increased 50%. Talk about your fish or hermit crab like he is your cranky, elderly next door neighbor. Get in to a fit of giggles over a story about a FREAKING SLIDING GLASS DOOR.
You never know what life will hold. So, laugh about it. Or stay in fetal position over a Christmas ornament on the hunt.
It's your choice.