"Though They May Gang A' Kennin' Wrang, To Step Aside Is Human"

I am a Koala bear. Here me roar. No, but really, there are some startling parallels going on. About a year ago Patrick told me that of all the animals in the land, I looked the most like a Koala bear. I liked that comparison--they're small, cute and cuddly, so I really had no reason to argue with his astute assessment. But now the similarities have become so much more than skin deep! I will now include an excerpt from wikipedia’s page on Koala bears, with only a few minor adjustments in wordology in order to illustrate my point:


"The Koala lives almost entirely on Diet Dr Pepper. This is likely to be an evolutionary adaptation that takes advantage of an otherwise unfilled ecological niche, since Diet Dr Pepper is low in protein, high in indigestible substances, and contains compounds that are toxic to most species. Koala has a very low metabolic rate for a mammal and rests motionless for about 16 to 18 hours a day, sleeping most of that time. Koalas spend about three of their five active hours eating. Feeding occurs at any time of day, but usually at night. An average Koala eats approximate 4500 g (140 oz) of Diet Dr Pepper each day. The liver deactivates the toxic components and the gut is greatly enlarged to extract the maximum amount of nutrients from the poor quality diet. The Koala will partake of a wide range of diet sodas, and occasionally even some non-diet sodas such as Dr Pepper and Mexican Coca-Cola Classic. However, it has firm preferences for particular varieties of diet soda. Koalas that are disturbed during their resting state are known to be violent, their teeth and claws capable of causing considerable injury to others."

I rest my case.

And you know that even if Koalas don't actually roar, they would totally sneeze like me.

I had an uneasy experience last week on the bus home that is prompting me to make an apology and a promise. I solemly swear, with a hand upon my bosom to show my sincerity, that I will make the utmost effort not to hum in public ever again. Because despite my belief previously that it was a harmless habit coming from boredom or happiness, it turns out that when you don't know someone and you're in a public place, it's just downright creepy.

Roommates: don't hold your breath, this does not mean that when I take my occasional leisurely afternoon shower that I will stop belting out arias and torch songs. That's just too much to ask for, and besides I'm sure you already find me creepy to some extent or another.

Sometimes the Universe just hates you. And when that happens, the Christian maxim of “turn the other cheek” should be the very last option you consider. Cause when the Universe sucker-punches you, the only rational response should be to punch back whatever way you can. My most recent tactic has just been to scream as loud and as long as my substantial opera-singing-trained breath support will allow.


This is facilitated by the fact that I live off of Geneva Road now, which is possibly the perfect pastoral setting for verbally gutting oneself of frustrations. It's best to be in a car while doing this: partially because feeling your breath get whipped out of your mouth by the raging wind adds to the experience, and also because then if the 3.87 people living in the area look up from their cinderblock-bound trucks to see what's going on, you're already out of the area.

But, if you are frequently carless, or the Universe decides to smack you down while you are in the comfort of your own home, I can now testify that it works just as well to scream your bloody guts out in a standing position.

Because when I dropped on the floor my entire helping of yet-unsampled-over-processed-deliciousness-still-slightly-steaming bowl of mac n cheese on the floor, shattering the bowl and sending pasta everywhere, I just let out a rebel yell. I wasn't quite crying 'more, more, more,' though, it was more of a barbaric yawp or bellow of disdain for everything the Universe stood for when they picked my midnight snack as their target.

Speaking of barbaric yawps and our own Mr. Whitman, my favorite part of that quote is actually the line just preceding: "I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslateable/I shout my barbaric YAWP from the rooftops of the world" Untranslateable is a narcissistic but appealing concept, the idea that you are so much an entity unto yourself that you can't be dissembled by the passing examinations of your peers.

And I would rather walk across hot coals discalced than allow the thought stick that I am 'tamed.' I know I'm fairly normal in most respects, I follow the rules of hygience and some of the nods toward social graces, but it's incredibly uncomfortable to apply to yourself a term that can also be applied to a parakeet or a pit bull.

And yet all the same I have no trouble at all proudly proclaiming that I am the epitome of Koala bears.