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Noodles: Terror at the car wash.

I have trouble with extremely specific and unlikely fears.  For example, that a bug will get stuck in my nose and fly into my brain and control my thoughts for a horrifying three days before I convulse and die.  


That isn’t likely. 



But it’s possible.  


The point is, I tend to overthink situations that could lead to an unpleasant death.  Today, I’d like to talk about one of those situations which has particularly haunted me over the years, and how I finally overcame my fear.  It’s basically a TED talk.  Except I’m going to offer a real solution to a problem and it will take less than five minutes.  

Picture this:  
A sepia-washed scene.  An apocalyptic-looking car wash, with one of the letters missing.  
There are no scented trees left in the dispenser.  The mechanical payment machine takes only quarters and doesn’t give back change.  There is a detailing station to the side - a trash can, a vacuum with a sticky handle, gum on the ground and a half eaten hamburger lying in a puddle.  
Need I go on?  We’ve all been there.  
After I moved out and had my own car to take care of, I didn’t vacuum it out for over a year.  I’m not ashamed to say (okay, kind of ashamed) that I was afraid to do it alone.  When could you possibly be more vulnerable?  Bending over, your head stuck beneath a seat, the roar of the vacuum filling your ears, disproportionately loud considering the weakness of its miserly inhalations.  
Your keys are maybe in your pocket, more likely still in the ignition.  There is no one around, and lots of doorways and concrete pillars for murderers to hide behind.  
I was honestly terrified of vacuuming my car.  
But I was even more terrified that I would be slowly suffocated in used tissues and cracker crumbs if I didn’t do something.  
So I sucked it up (figuratively), and sucked it up (literally), and while I was doing so, I realized something very important.  

Something life-changing.  

I realized that all car vacuums are liars and thieves and five minutes never costs merely one dollar.  There’s always a catch.  
But that’s not the really important thing I realized.  The important thing was this:  If I am ever approached by a fiendish, evil-seeking scoundrel while I am vacuuming my car, I have the world’s greatest weapon at my very fingertips.  If he has a gun or knife, I can suck it right out of his hand.  If he gets too close, I can stick it over his nose and suck his eyeballs out while I leap into the front seat and peel out.  If this fails, I can strangle him with the hose.  There are so many options, all of which give me the upper hand in any foreseeable encounter.  


Now I can vacuum my car, fear-free (except at that one place...on the west side of town...), and so can you!  Thank you, thank you. (Applause). 

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Cheese: My life.

Noodles: Just, noodles.

I realized on Thursday that I have no idea who I am.  It was very disconcerting, particularly as it happened moments after I’d stood up suddenly, not realizing there was a heavy plank shelf directly over my head.  It was also after two or three hours of inhaling the stale remnants of ten years of uninhibited mouse parties, and an entire bottle of environmentally caring cleaning fluid.  Anyway, this isn’t exactly humorous (unless you get a kick out of existential crises), but it made me wonder if anyone else feels the same way.  So, readers, tell me this - do you feel as if you know who you are?  Or are you just pretending to know?  Or are you, at this moment, simultaneously reading this on your phone and telling a complete stranger all the ways that you feel isolated from the rest of the human race?  Let me know.  “I” am interested in your answer.   PS Anticipating zero comments, because the majority of my readership is too intellectual to stoop to the paltry pract