A Pre-Apology:

My apologies if this isn't as repulsively funny as you might have expected. I'm such a fucking downer most of the time, I felt that really, I had to illuminate some wonder that exists in the real world.

I spend a lot of effort on this blog noting what's wrong with all of us socially; what traps we've put ourselves in, how we've fucked ourselves, how to stop being cunty, and how to bleed good and unselfish blood. This is all of course prefaced by the supposition that humanity has wandered off down a spikey trail of inhumane psyches.

For most of my thoughts I don't deviate from this context, but sometimes things happen that offer me no option but to abandon all of this un-hope. My un-hope that has cowered in the corner with me, yelled non-sensically whilst hammered at a pool table, and pinched the nipples of innocent bystanders. For no reason other than to show my discontent in a way that every one understands: being obnoxious.

Sometimes, events come along that counteract my thinking and run in parallel so beautifully that I've no choice but to let them run me over like a fucking train.

You all know who Susan Boyle is by now, so I'll let that be my conclusion. Let me tell you the story about Francine.

Francine is approximately fifty years-old and looking quite stunning. She looks like a much more spry and generally fucking hot Meryl Streep. We both have a love for libations and a flair for flippant crass-talk. She, in fact, saw Russell Brand with me and encouraged me to fuck him. Yet she, the daughter of an LAPD officer, speaks with the aloof sophistication of a debutant. I love Francine.

She and I share much common ground in the area of the ole' romantic difficulties and botched entanglements as well. She's lived her life learning that a man will not take care of her and all hope is lost. Her parents are either incapacitated or deceased, her siblings apparently not useful either. She lives in a boat that many of us do. Most of us would abandon all hope around age 35 or so. I, abandoned hope at the tender age of 19, but that's why they call me a pessimist. I call myself a realist.

Francine had known this fellow Will for twenty years. They'd always been friends. Nothing more, nothing less. An occasional twitter-esque phone call to get the update on each others' goings-on and shenanigans. Then they realized that there was some kind of mutual attraction and Francine realized; "He's nice to me. Shit, fuck, damn, I better get wise."

Get wise she did. Three months after beginning to date Will, the two of them bought a house. She professes that it was a horrid mistake she made, waiting all that time to shack up and knock the proverbial boots with Will. She's ferociously in love with Will. She fears that he'll look down on her or despise her at some point for waiting all the time he did. I wonder this about Jab all the time. I'm insecure. I love my insecurity these days just like I used to love my misery.

Yet Will and Jab have the same answer: "I don't even think about that. I'm with you now and that's all that matters."

Do more than two of these types of people really exist? Or are they figments of my imagination. When I hear these things I want to drink Drano to decide if I'm still alive. A little death will bring us all back to life.

Well, in order for these individuals to exist, their counterparts must as well. The hopeful romantics begging their own deflated hearts to pump up again with reality that they can change cynics minds.

Enter Susan Boyle and Simon Cowell.

Like Will and Jab never giving up on Francine and I and our brilliance covering up our idiocy, Susan Boyle never gave up the mildly nagging hope that she'd be a singer. It probably jumped and attacked at her like a hot oil burn. I've experienced this a lot lately because I am a shitty cook.

As Jab and I watched the video of Susan Boyle, seeing this mousey woman that looked so fucking British she could shit the Queen and I'd be none surprised, we crossed our fingers and chanted, "C'MON INSANITY!"

How cruel of us. We're going to atheist hell. Which means someone will make us go to church some day. We'll try to be drunk for that.

The moment Ms. Boyle opened her gold laden throat was the same moment mine and Francine's metaphorical judge-personal Simon Cowell realized, "shit, this is fucking good, I've got to do something about this even though I'm fucking scared shitless to deal with it. There's got to be something wrong with this person that's been waiting for this for so long."

Sometimes, it's a Tonya Harding triple axle of fucking perfection.

Though instead of taking twenty years or eight months to deal with the acceptance of living with such a fabulous thing, the magic of television forced Mr. Cowell to recognize the magnificence of Ms. Boyle in less than five minutes.

Being a supreme cynic, I feel for that bastard. That must have been gut-wrenching to be so honest about something positive and wonderful. Ugh. Happiness is so hard for me to stomach that I have to make sure it's accurate about five times before I confirm that it's correct:

Brain: "Asta, there has to be something wrong. Scan for all possibilities."

*Scanning for disease, future financial issues, future mental problems, future genetic fatness*

Asta: "Sorry cranial capacity, I've got nothing, I tried to self-sabotage and I can't."

Brain: "Well then are you certain you'd like to proceed? You could really fuck up."

Asta: "Uhh no...ask me again."

Brain: "You could really fuck up. You could fart or tell him he's 'pretty' and fuck it all up."

Asta: "I guess it could be worse. I could make a crack about AIDS and find out that his best friend has it or something. Ok, I'll go for it."

I'd like to imagine that I'm as brilliant as Mr. Cowell and he goes through a similar cycle of discerning a good contestant from a bad one, but probably not.

If you happen to be a hopeful person or a dreamer, do not give up. There is no rule that says hope expires at a specific date. If you truly feel something in your gut, in your bowels, below your heart and even maybe in your left ventricle, don't let go of it. That cynic that you shock someday will be utterly elated that you didn't give up. You'll forever change their world.