O, Magical Internet, What Else Will I Learn From You?

We've all gotten those emails. Now think for a minute and try to anticipate which type of emails I'm actually talking about. Spam? Chain letters promising $2500 from Mr. Bill Gates himself sent from a lawyer who "knows" what she's talking about? Jokes with rudimentary animation, usually involving a middle-aged fat man dropping his pants? No. No. No.

I'm actually talking about those personal quizzes that get passed around like mono on prom night. I like the quizzes. I try not to forward them too much, because I consider email a legitimate form of communication and not a means by which to make my friends dread hearing from me. But I like them nonetheless. Why? Because I like to believe it matters to someone other than myself and the CEO of General Mills what I had for breakfast this morning (yogurt burst Cheerios, FYI). Because like this very blog, I want proof of my existence. Not just for others to have proof I existed, but proof for myself. Maybe in a few days I won't remember what I had for breakfast this morning, but if I look at that old email, I'll remember those Cheerios and picture myself sitting on the couch in my strawberry patch-patterned PJs, watching NY1 (hi, Pat!), trying to figure out how to get out of going to work. Good times.

I got an unusual quiz the other day. It was one where instead of filling out information about yourself, you fill out information about the person who sent it to you. I can't believe I've never seen this before, because I feel like if there is a forward out there, it will inevitably make it into my inbox. This quiz wasn't all that interesting. They didn't ask very probing questions and the questions they did ask like "What was the first thing I said to you?" just don't apply when you've known someone for ten years and can't even remember the last thing they said to you.

There are two things I found out from this quiz. One is that if I were on a deserted island with anyone who knows me I am expected to either craft the hell out of it with rubber stamps and diecuts or else bring the Cheetos.

The other thing involves this question: Are you rebel or do you follow the rules? Most of my friends said I followed the rules, but my cousin said I absolutely did NOT follow the rules. So who's right?

I guess it depends what the rules are.

I follow the rules:

• I don't litter.


• Or smoke.


• Or drink much.


• Or do any kind of drugs.


• I don't speed when I drive.


• I actually use the library and return my books on time. If I don't, I pay the ten cent fine.


• I floss.


• I don't like to sleep on my left side because I hear it's bad for your heart.


• I don't use my teeth to open bottles.


• I recycle.

I don't follow the rules:

• I don't believe in God (I'd like to, but I'm honest enough with myself to admit I'm highly suspicious).


• I have more stuffed animals now than when I was twelve. I talk to them. They talk back.


• I think voting for the president is more important than voting for the next American Idol.


• I eat potato chips for dinner.


• I shower as little as possible and wash my hair even less.


• I don't care if my boyfriend goes to strip clubs, looks at porn, or reads Playboy (not that he does any of those things)


• I play with my food.


• I go to fancy restaurants, take off my shoes, and tuck my feet under my butt.


• I want to name my first born Tristmegistus. Or Newly.

I think in the end it's relative. Literally. My family—sure they have their psychotic moments, but for the most part, they're pretty normal. So to them, I appear odd. Whereas most of my friends are of the free-thinking, creative variety and to them, I appear un-odd.

I suppose, really, it's nice to be both. Isn't that right, Pippo?

Why, yass, that is certainly correct.