I’m willing to gamble all the money in my bank account (and for a waitress’ salary I promise it’s not all that shabby) that you’re hiding at least one little questionable habit from your peers’ judgemental glares and screwed-up noses. No need to worry, I won’t tell anyone. The thing is, there’s bound to be something that gets their knees knocking in excitement too, despite the shameful connotations.
I once caught a friend with a collection of men’s deodorant shoved into a corner of her wardrobe because she liked her clothes smelling ‘boyish’. Hey, I’m not judging- you do you. Weird fetishes involving locks of hair or wacky collections of black Santas are also probably popular among the masses of somewhat-freakish humans out there.
‘So, what fortress of pleasure are you hiding in your castle of guilt?’ I hear you singing in the distance, practically bursting with euphoria as you gaze lovingly at your hoard of tomato sauce sachets. If you really must know, I am shamefully obsessed with eulogies. And I don’t mean reading them, even though I’m sure there are some tear-jerking rippers out there (get it, rip-pers, what a killer of a pun).
The grave truth is that I get a tonne of satisfaction from composing eulogies in my head for close friends and relatives. I know right, oh-so heart-warming!! Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I’m sitting on the edge of my seat eagerly waiting for a friend to step out in front of a moving bus or die from chocolate overdose or something. I simply enjoy writing speeches about my friends… even if they happen to be lifeless… and buried.
Upon analysing my messed-up brain as to why the heck it thinks ‘eulogising’ is a reasonable extra-curricular activity, I realised that the fundamental basis of piecing together a ‘have fun in heaven!’ piece is celebrating the life of someone I love. So to be fair, if my brain’s deemed you soon-to-be asleep-for-eternity and worthy of a fake eulogy, it’s a dead giveaway that you’ve dug your way deep into my heart. Or maybe I’m just secretly a member of the Addams Family.
… Yeah OK, I hear you, it’s still weird. But hey, at least I’m not daydreaming about midget wrestling or spending my hard-earned waitress’ salary on patterned onesies for a small army of dogs; there are worse guilty pleasures in this world.