Step 33: Fulfill Your Dreams

Today I went to One-Man-Band for breakfast. I ate a dish called "Hobo Dream;" thus, fulfilling my dream to be homeless.

Step 32: Dig Holes

No, not like the book.

I dig holes for a living. Not because I get paid to do it, but because my entire life consists of the metaphorical digging of holes.
I dig holes at home:

I never do my laundry until I am on my last pair of underwear. And of course, on the day when I wear my last pair of clean undies, I have no time to wash. I end up staying up all night doing laundry and homework because I was too lazy to do laundry two days before when I had nothing going on. I don't clean my room a little at a time. I wait until it is impossible to maneuver through the clutter on the floor and bed and then clean it. This, actually, turns my house into a literal hole.

I dig holes at school:

I procrastinate. I wait until the last possible second to complete things. One hour in between classes tomorrow? Perfect amount of time to write a four page paper. Think again, Liz.
I dig holes in conversations:

I am not capable of thinking before speaking. Words explode out of my mouth at a rate and volume that most people would not think humanly possible. Thus, the words come out much faster than I can think them. It sounds impossible, but it's real. This creates a hole when I start to say crazy things like just today when I started to tell my teacher, "I'm a loner...I hate everyone...haha...(he just stares at me)...I'll probably blow up the school..." That's a hole. There is no way out. Or when you tell someone with a horrible look "Why did you cut your hair?!" There's no way to get out of that hole. You're gone. You live in that hole.

I dig holes by telling too many lies:

Who doesn't lie now and then, honestly? But it's tough to keep them straight. Did you tell your English teacher that your brother died or that you were in an accident? Did I already use that excuse before with the same person? Or when you lies come out on the fly and they are crazy. It's like that Berenstein Bears book where the kids lie about a broken lamp. The lie gets so out of hand that there is an exotic bird in their story at one point. That's me. In a hole. With an exotic bird.

I dig holes by not saving money:

I guess I think that money just goes on forever even if I don't work. Because I just spend it. Fast. I want pizza that I can only eat half of and will throw the rest away. I want a shirt that I'll never wear. I want a sun dress in the winter. I drive all over the state because gas is free, right? Then one day I realize that I have no money. And my credit card bill is due. And I don't work for four days. And I have no food. So I eat Ramen. That I stole from my roomate. Yes, I steal Ramen Noodles. Sometimes, I'm that far in a hole.

Step 31: Repeat Things

Repeat actions and phrases and anything else that can be. Such as:

Say, "You're stupid." over and over.
Read the same books.
Count. Anything. Everything. All the time. (There's meaningful senselessness in numbers.)
Watch the same episodes of television shows.
Say the same jokes.
Eat the same foods.
Use the same pens. Always.
Recycle.
Wear the same outfit three days in a row.

Step 30: Be Extreme

Say things like:

I'd rather put nails in my eyes.
I'll die first.
There's a bajillion people in here.
The temperature outside is negative fifty million.
I'll only ever love a Jew.
This whole state smells.
Christmas is for lunatics.
My life is over after that christmas card.
I don't own any good movies (books, clothes, etc.).
I'll never eat leftovers or camp food.
We live in two different worlds.
I am Harry Potter.
My arm fell off.

Step 29: Worry

Worry about everything, especially those things out of your control.

Growing up in Pennsylvania, I worried about Tornadoes. As soon as a Tornado watch or threat was issued, I was in the basement with blankets and flashlights. When the sky was cloudy, I searched every visible inch to see if it was green. Green meant tornado. Tornado meant basement. This obsession was constantly in the background for me.

Once I moved to Utah, I was briefly freed from this natural disaster anxiety. However, my tornado anxiety quickly turned into earthquake anxiety. The earthquake which is overdue for the Wasatch fault haunts me daily.


As soon as I lay down in my bed at night, my thoughts turn to the earthquake.
"What would I do right now if the ground beneath me began to shake?"
I ask myself this. I obsess over this.
"Would I grab my shoes? Is there time for that? Should I make time? It's freezing outside. Who knows when I will be able to get shoes again if the whole valley is destroyed. What about a coat? Food? How much time will I have before the building collapses on me? Should I grab my phone? My purse? What should be first in the list of items?"
I decide at this point that I need to prioritize.
"Okay, I will need some of these things. Better to die in the building getting a coat than freeze to death outside. Shoes first, then coat.
No wait.
Shoes first, then purse. I will need money. Or will money be obsolete? Would a coat be the same as $100 if everyone is freezing and starving. But my ID could be important."
At this point, I realize that none of these things are put in a place where I can easily grab them on my way out the door.
"Where did I leave my shoes? Where is my warmest coat? Ach! Everything is everywhere. Nothing in its place. Nothing has a place. Should I get up now and make places for things and prepare my belongings? It could come any second. Any second. And what about my phone..."
This continues until I fall into a fitful unsound sleep.

In the shower I have the same worry. What if the earthquake hit then?
"Would I gather my clothes? Would I dress first? Should I just leave in a towel? What's safer, inside or outside? Should I finish rinsing the soap out of my hair if hit right now?"
With this thought, I frantically rinse my hair so that I can avoid this problem all together. (My hair cut has helped this process of frantic thinking and rinsing tremendously.) Then the shower finishes. Clothes are applie hastily and something resembling relaxation begins.

At school.
"Where will I hide? What's my nearest exit? How sound is this building? How many seconds will it take for the building to collapse? Does it really make sense to attend my classes that are held in the basement? I will hide under my desk. It will protect my skull. But not my air. The building will collapse and the other dieing people will use up my air as they suffocate with me. No one will save me any breaths."

At work.
In the car.
At the neighbor's.
Out to eat.
Grocery shopping.
The mechanic.
The mall.
etc.
etc.
etc.

Step 28: Love Used Books

If you place your nose directly into the center
of a worn and used book-
not an inch above the page
but close
close enough to let the words dance into your body in a deep breath-
you can smell the story of a story.

You can smell the child's crayon
let loose on the pages of a parent's book
or the youthful grumblings
of required reading and book reports.

You can smell the warm coffee spilt and stained
in a bizzarre shape across page 162
as the reader popped up to answer the ringing phone,

or the frantic highlighting and underlining
of the college student determined to get an A,

or the dust of death which left a book
in a brown box under the stairs
until found years later by grandchildren,

and the quiet exchange of words on a page
as lovers read a book aloud in a green park
amidst the high rises and hustle of the city-

all kept alive between two dissolving covers,
between a beginning and an end,
the story within a story.