DON’T GET UP

Snoop Dogg Is On His Way to Help

A woman and a wall bump into each other and no one wins

I’m sick of people trying to cure my exhaustion. Whenever I say I’m tired, everyone becomes a pill pusher, an organic acolyte, a water peddler, an online meditation dealer, and a Google-educated medical expert.

When was the last time you saw the doctor, Amy? I had a cousin who had a brain tumor ringworm blood clot Lego stuck in crotch. You should see my acupuncturist. How much water do you drink? Have you tried the Insight timer, Calm app, whey protein? Have you tried Keto, Evel Knievel, or slapping your ass seventeen times a day with laminated hay?

True story. I worked with daredevil Evel Knievel’s niece at the Iowa City Public Library. She was also tired all the time and she was related to someone who could fly over semi-trucks on a motorcycle. Life is exhausting. Haven’t you noticed?

You know that political bumper sticker that says “If you’re not outraged, you’re not paying attention.” I think the bumper sticker should read “If you’re not exhausted, you must have passed out already.”

So many people I know have cured themselves from being tired. I used to be tired, they say, but then I started yelling Yabba Dabba Doo at sunrises on the Mayan ruins while stuffing hemp into my underpants and drinking wheat grass grown out of the ear of a goat. I was never tired again. You should try it.

I’m tired. So what. I’m beyond tired. Sometimes I clonk my head onto my desk and moan. It doesn’t mean I’m dying. It doesn't mean I am lacking in organic. The world is tiring and I am responding to that. Beat it, Bozo. Read the paper.

I blame that Medical Alert commercial with those old women falling down and not getting up. Those commercials made falling down look like a death sentence. Every since those old gals face-planted and pushed their medical alert buttons, people looked down on falling and not getting up. It used to be cool.

I’m here to tell you falling down and not being able to get up isn’t just for old folks with lumpy oriental rugs that make tripping inevitable. Falling down and not getting up is for everyday people like you and me. Face it. We’re all falling down.

Some of us get up. Some of us do not get up, not because we’re lacking in whey protein, but because we’re tired. Because, have you read the news?

Full disclosure. My grandma was one of the actresses who played a falling down and not getting up old woman. She never lived it down. My grandpa liked to pour dish soap onto the floor. When she slipped, he’d howl, “Are you falling and not getting up?” You thought your family was crazy.

Enough of my family history though. This is about me. I’d like to tell you how I got so tired, so you stop trying to fix me. Or worse, encourage me to find my chi or my chow or my choo choo.

Recently, I hit a wall. You should see the wall. I’ve got a hard head but the wall had a hard rock. Let’s say it was a tie. We were both hurt, but the wall got up and I didn’t.

Don’t press Medical Alert just yet. Me and the wall are both recovering. The wall had been saving up money since the day it was built. It never occurred to the wall that it could go anywhere so it had a helluva nest egg. The wall was loaded.

To facilitate its recovery, the wall traveled to the Caribbean on a first-class romantic tour. The tour guide suggested the wall buy some of Gwyneth Paltrow’s $180 vagina scented candles.

It was the kind of tour that promised romance but you can only do so much with and for a wall. Gwyneth’s candles were the closest the wall was getting to actual pussy. That’s a different story. I’ll tell you about it later.

I, on the other hand, live in America where I just spent 92 dollars to fill my gas tank. I don’t get to go to the Caribbean and heal. I’m forced to do a fa-cay, which is like a vacay, but it’s fake.

I make my own face mask — oatmeal, turmeric, and honey. I put on my sound machine. Birds and waterfalls. I turn off my air conditioner so it feels like I’m suffocating in the tropics during a heat storm. I put the do not disturb on my phone which never works. I’m still disturbed.

Unlike the wall, I’m not snapping back. I’m exhausted. I feel like I’m waiting for serenity in the DMV line. I’m not optimistic.

Every time I feel an inkling better about the world, a woman walks past me on the street and I think “She doesn’t have any rights.” So I turn on some female Wimbelton tennis to cheer me up and I think, “What the hell is that second-class citizen doing on those beautiful courts? Shouldn't she be silent and pregnant somewhere in Texas?” That doesn’t cheer me up either.

I’m not sure when the grass will start to look greener, especially since watering your grass kills the planet. Jesus, I have never been this much of a downer. People have stopped recognizing me on the street.

It’s funny when you spend your life blowing sunshine up people’s asses and you wake up a pessimist. People have started to look at me funny like they can’t quite place me.

I look like that lunatic who’s always yelling Silverlining!!! but I keep talking about the end of days. Who am I now? If I don’t know, how will anyone else?

I trace it all back to the Medical Alert necklace. If only the director of that commercial would have let the old ladies just lay down on the ground — smiling, instead of panicking and pressing that fucking button.

An alternative ending for that ad could have been Snoop Dogg laying down next to the old ladies, placing a joint between their lips, and saying “Relax baby, you look tired.” Maybe then, people wouldn’t be so judgy about fatigue or falling down. We’d see it as an opportunity to smoke a joint with the Dogg and just chillax.

I have one thing to say to the people offering me powdered energy drinks and masturbation meditation. I’m falling down and I can’t get up. Leave me. I’m fine. I’m waiting for the Snoop. I’d like you gone before he gets here.