Whatever happened to happy, joyous, and free? Life was suppose to replicate a glossy advertisement, where the people are more beautiful than the place, and their smiles gleam proportionate to your desire to join them. Within the dimensions of the photo, nothing could go wrong. And if it did, well, it's nothing that a splash in the pool won't fix. It seems plausible. Does it not? For the vast majority, it does not. My search for such an existence has uncovered the deception of Photoshop, where I am somehow always edited out.
Oh! You poor sap, you might say. How could you have gotten it so wrong? How do you survive the day-to-day monotony? Good questions, though, not one deserves an answer. I’m speaking of the quest and yet you mock my devotion. This journey has made me bitter, resentful, and easily bored—especially on Sundays.
I get the occasional glimpse of abundant joy, usually during an activity of choice; however, peaceful interludes are cooked by distasteful tasks like laundry-mat laundry, grocery shopping, cleaning the house, visits to the dentist, paying bills, or fixing my car with improper tools. The taste of victory quickly turns sauerkraut.
Why do share this missery when we have our own to contend with? This is my point. We struggle too much. There's a better place. A place where the glossy matches reality. A place called Disneyland!
Oh! You scoff. Disneyland is for children, and retards. But who, I ask, is not a kid at heart. Who among us has not been gypped on their childhood? Who, by sibling standards, is not a little mentally challenged?
Not once—during the four days as a park guest—did I think about income, personal debt, taxes, world hunger or any other depressing topic. Instead, my greatest concern was the line length for Space Mountain, Indiana Jones, and Matterhorn. There were other entertainment options when the lines became intolerable. Watching Cruella De Vil be snarky to the children on Main Street was one of my favorite pastimes—often preceded by dragging my father from the Churro cart.
In Disneyland, people are always happy. And who wouldn't be? The smell of cotton candy and other sweet confections fill the air. Catchy little gingles reach every corner of the park. Parades and fireworks are scheduled daily. All five senses are constantly being tugged at, much like the pant-legs of countless parents toting small children. And the Christmas decorations, Oh! My God.
It is so cool that I wanted to stay. After all, I've spent years desiging my life arround these ideals. I could work there. Yeah! Given my temperament, suitable Disney personas dwindled rapidly. My options narrowed to Cruella, or a mouse—like Mickey but smaller, and more of a cousin-once-removed caliber. Since no one had ever heard of Mickey's cousin, it became my mission to educate.
I only wish someone would have mentioned the real, live cats that patrol at night.