For those of you who know me well, or for those of you who were duped into reading my entire blog due to the facetious yet highly effective Gchat status message that said ‘Tupac in Mexico – Photos Here‘, you are aware that one of my life goals back in college was to become an epic poet. If you were wondering, the working world hasn’t changed me: this is still one of my aspirations. Sometimes I think I’d like nothing more than to sit outside, reciting tales of monsters and adventure and my ‘cunning intelligence’ to anyone who’ll listen. Unlike Homer, I will not be bald, nor will I have a beard. Long tunics really aren’t my thing either.
To develop credibility to become an epic poet, I realize that I’ll need some super epic things to talk about. Here’s what I’ve come up with so far:
– Eating an entire dessert platter (made for 4 people!) at a fancy restaurant when I was 21, prompting my friend’s dad to call me a fatty to this this day.
– Getting a speeding ticket near SF State while trying to rush to a doctor’s appointment, then pretending to cry in order to evoke pity. For the record, it didn’t work.
– Concocting a grandmaster plan to dump animal innards at the front door of a boy who suddenly disappeared from our relationship without another trace. Oops! #istilldontregretthis
– Being the only one left in her underwear after UCLA’s infamous undie run at 6am, then getting laughed at by construction workers who were at Denny’s eating breakfast.
Not so much epic, more like pathetic. Scratch that. Is pathetic poet a respectable profession?