Solutions and Other Problems

by Allie Brosh

The only thing worse than getting trapped in the same bucket nineteen times is surrender.

For the sake of trust building, the third chapter will follow the second. But then we will jump directly to chapter five, do you understand? No chapter four. Why? Because sometimes things don’t go like they should. This is an inescapable property of reality, which we all must learn to accept. There just isn’t enough power in the universe for everybody to have all of it.

Of course, one of the main features of undeveloped, fish-level brains is poor impulse control,

There’s no Hallmark card for “Sorry we accused you of being a molester; we didn’t realize our kid was sneaking into your house and stealing your spoons and animals and watching you while you sleep. We’re really, really sorry.”

I have this daydream where I’m dressed like a conquistador and I’m riding a horse. It isn’t immediately clear why this is happening, but my muscles are intense and highly visible.

No, I found out that the child was paralytically, nonsensically, apocalypse-level scared of dandelions the moment I pushed her stroller past the exact center of a sprawling ocean of dandelions.

As though I have the power to decide whether he gets to choose the bananas, and god help me, I am finally going to use it.

I could tell he wanted to buy a hundred bananas right then. No: a thousand bananas. Just blow our life savings on bananas for the sole purpose of demonstrating what a horrific dick I was being.

If you keep going, you’ll eventually realize that the one true answer to all your questions is: Of course it doesn’t make sense—what business do you have expecting things to make sense? It’s a long process, but for me, the thing that started it was a bird.

It’s a confusing type of sadness. Real, yet undeniably ridiculous. The same kind of sadness you’d feel after finding out that your mom is a sock puppet.

Sometimes all you can really do is keep moving and hope you end up somewhere that makes sense.

Some years have been hard, but overall, I have a pretty easy life. If I find a dead deer, I don’t have to fight a bear for it. I don’t even have to eat it if I don’t want to.

Every day, he’d start hammering around that time—7:53, 7:56, 7:55—always close enough to 8 o’clock to indicate that hammer guy was aware of the rules for hammering, but was choosing to disregard them to gain an unfair advantage.

Having to be personally responsible for maintaining justice in the world is distressing. It makes it seem like maybe there’s something wrong at the Universal Fairness and Balance Department. Like maybe the higher-ups have lost control and they need help.

It would probably be similarly difficult to explain why I felt it was necessary to imagine him as a pirate.

And trying really hard when you don’t know what you’re doing just happens to be the exact recipe for acting like a fuckin’ weirdo.

I don’t know about death yet, but I can sense my friend isn’t doing as great as his max potential probably. He needs my help. The determination sets in across my face. By god, I am going to help this fish, and there is nothing anyone can do to stop me.

And I’m mangling the poor fish so badly that even at this ridiculous resolution, you can see pieces of its body rubbing off on my mittens.

There is no frog, life is pointless, and nobody knows what’s going to happen. I’m very sorry to inform you of this, but if you grow up only reading happy stories where you find out the answers to all your questions, you will be scared and confused and probably die in a dumpster fire. It is better to accept the utter futility of things as early as possible and save yourself the struggle.

All I know is that one day, I came home from school, and Becky was duct-taped to a computer chair in our driveway.

Best to assume they have their reasons and leave them to their terrorism activity.

Imagine having a friendship like that. Like, Hey there, pal… looks like you’re having a weird day, so I understand if you need to trap me in a sleeping bag and rub the inside of a banana peel on me until I admit that my name is Dance Pony. Of course I understand. I mean… that happens. Honestly, I’m probably gonna do that to you too sometimes. No big deal. You’re my best friend.

Somebody who understands exactly how weird you are, and you understand exactly how weird they are, and you’re in a sort of mutually beneficial hostage situation.

Because nobody should have to feel like a pointless little weirdo alone.