A baby came up to me yesterday and said,
“Jamie, how do you recover from failure?”
I’m guessing this baby had already encountered failure is his very short life and needed some answers.
It was a bit off putting. Not because it was a baby but because nobody really bothered me during my bi-weekly jogs at Macy’s.
The baby cooed in expectation. I relived all of my previous failures in slow motion. I remembered my Universal Studio audition where I forgot the monologue from the blockbuster hit “Never Been Kisssed,” or my failed American Idol audition. I looked at the baby and said,
“Your mom is right behind you.”
His mother, Angela Vincent, picked him up and glared at me. The baby was carried away crying over the unanswered question.
I jogged over to the juniors section where I saw an American Rag sweater on sale for $38.00 dollars. I became so enraged that I knocked over the display. I was surprised at my anger and attributed it to the question that this astute baby had asked. I guess I hadn’t recovered from failure, maybe I never would.
I left Macy’s after several associates chased me out and decided to head over to “Great American Cookie.” I asked the man at the register for half of a cookie. I had just had a bucket of KFC chicken and was not about to try for a whole cookie. The associate denied my request and I took out a declaration I had drafted two years ago from a previous occurrence at “Cookie Palace.” I cleared my throat and spoke.
“On this day I declare that the buyer is not slave to the seller. I declare that on this day what I request should be fully given to me in such a manner that is civil and prompt. I declare that I am entitled to buy what I choose and choose what I buy. I declare that if such needs are not fulfilled at the moment of transaction I will invoke the buyer vs. seller act which was established the moment I wrote this.”
I handed him the draft and he called mall security. I was escorted off the premises and told never to return. There goes my bi weekly jogs. This baby was changing the course of my life and he didn’t even know it…..or maybe he did.
TO BE CONTINUED…..
I thought I would share with you some of the best youtube comments I have received. Best meaning worst. I laugh at these now…I didn’t use to. Learn to not let a person’s opinion destroy you. It will work out if you listen to the right voices. Okay get ready. Here they are:
I feel like I’m trapped in a never ending episode of a teen drama where I stand with books clutched to my chest as Hank Windermere passes me without realizing I am alive. Directly across from me is the class rebel that stands with his arms crossed and toothpick in his mouth. Cut to the next scene where I am sitting in the front seat of his rusty Lebaron asking him if he could roll the windows up because my hair is getting messed up. He doesn’t hear me and floors it as I turn my head to see Trisha Sands laughing at Hank while she runs her fingers through his hair.
I hope that paints a vivid enough picture for you.
I just want to graduate to an adult melodrama.
On receipts I sign my name Jamie Buns because I write so fast my hand becomes guided by a spirit warrior. Somewhere in a trash heap is the receipts of meals that have past through my decaying body with the name Jamie Buns.
This may also come from a need of stepping out of my original last name. Burns is so generic and Buns is so fresh and edgy….or it just alludes to my butt (or lack of) or a type of bread you put a hotdog or hamburger in.
Why am I even writing about this? It’s on my mind tonight. It’s the Legend of Jamie Buns. She doesn’t really exist except when alcohol is consumed or she is being rushed by a crowd of people.
One day (if a man takes me as his betrothed) I’ll have a different last name, but every now and then I’ll sign it Jamie Buns and tell my children the story of her.
I hate the unlimited length for statuses because now I have to scroll through your long winded rant about how Burger King has horrible customer service or why Obama is destroying our nation.
I hate how spammers get into my account and say I was looking at a photo of a seahorse floating by a man’s wrist with a watch on it.
I hate how my extended family posts about how I might need to get counseling for codependency on my random status update about scuba diving or asks me where my mom is because no one can get ahold of her.
I hate how when someone famous dies people log in to facebook first to relay the info like they work for TMZ or Yahoo!
I hate vague statuses that mean nothing to me and usually have to do with someone breaking up with you or a friend that backstabbed you. “You would do something like that,” could be interpreted in 8 million ways.
I hate how facebook arrogantly suggests people you may know and I don’t know anyone on that list.
I hate how girls comment on my photo alluding to the fact that my picture might be considered inappropriate when they have a picture of themselves straddling a surfboard in a string bikini.
I hate how photographers who have a facebook want to critique a photo that was taken by your friend, “The lighting could be better…but great picture!”
I hate couple status updates. There should be a website just for couples that are obsessed with each other.
I hate when people post doppleganger pictures that look nothing like them because one person said they looked like a celebrity while under the influence of alcohol or narcotics.
I hate when people post their critiques of films after viewing them like they are Ebert and Roeper. Then proceed to get into a debate with other movie buffs.
What do you hate about facebook???
Because you don’t reply to simple texts.
Because you show no signs of life unless you are posting a picture on Instagram of you hugging a cardboard cutout of Bob Marley.
Because if I was standing at your door with a quartet singing you a song about how much I missed you, you would go back inside and eat a Banquet dinner.
Because you say a lot without doing much.
In conclusion you may think we are bossom buddies but in my mind you were the Steve Irwin poster that I threw out along with my pogs a long ass time ago.
I was at starbucks the other day getting a coffee to fill an insatiable void of energy in my body when this woman orders a coffee and decides to talk about her life.
Now, it’s great you have a career but in my personal opinion unless you are asked what you do in life do not waste my time in ordering or the barista’s by interjecting about what you do in your life.
This woman orders an iced coffee and then interjects,
“I JUST MOVED HERE FROM LA. I AM A PHOTOGRAPHER AND I DECIDED TO RELOCATE TO CHICAGO. I PRIMARILY DO FASHION PHOTOGRAPHY.”
This goes on and on and on to the point I have a strained smile and I’m no longer patiently waiting for my coffee.
Nothing prompted this. Nothing. The barista didn’t ask what brought her here. She just felt the urgency to share with all of us that she was a photographer. Now, if I looked like Heidi Klum this would of been fate bringing the two of us together.
People do this all the time. I never want to declare I am a comedian unless asked because then I get the same unoriginal demand, “Tell a joke.”
Maybe I should of just asked her to take my photo and send it to Ford models where they would politely reject me and say amongst colleagues that I look more like I could model for Wal-mart’s White Stag collection for women.
We have all read the stories about the so called zombies and I think if you believe it we can no longer have anymore conversations. For the CDC to have to intervene and say it’s not a zombie apocalypse you know that America is on it’s way to being the dumbest country that ever existed.
“CDC does not know of a virus or condition that would reanimate the dead (or one that would present zombie-like symptoms)”, agency spokesman David Daigle told the Huffington Post on Friday.
Seriously? They really had to make a statement about it? The CDC made posters in jest regarding the zombie apocalypse to be prepared for the apocalypse but I guess since there are actually people out there that still believe in Elvis sightings and UFOs they had to make an official statement.
I hate zombies. I hate the fascination. Why would you want to pretend you are dead, rancid smelling, and have no life? I’d rather dress up like Strawberry Shortcake or Yoko Ono.
Zombie America: The land of the dead and the home of the depraved.
*In an instance where it could exist. I would be one of the first to go. I would not survive. I would fall to the feet of the zombies and let them tear me apart limb by limb FYI.