I wish I’d lived a life truer to myself. If I could go back in time and throw out every fake mustache I owned, I would. Even the smart-mouthed sheriff one. They were no better at helping me express who I was than my prosthetic noses.
I didn’t stop to smell the roses enough. If I’m being honest with myself, there were other things I didn’t smell enough. If I’m really being honest, I could have licked more stuff too.
I regret not keeping in touch with old friends. Robbie O’Connor and I were thick as thieves back in grade school. You couldn’t tear us away from that sandbox. We drifted a bit in high school. I was into punk music; Robbie still loved the sandbox. Last time I saw him, we were home the summer after college—the cops were pulling Robbie out of the sandbox. We lost touch soon after. I regret that.
If only I’d been able to let myself laugh. Like, really laugh. When people said funny things, my mouth would open and my shoulders would shake, but no sound came out. I know now that sound was supposed to come out.
I wish I had enjoyed more sunsets, but instead of oohing and ahhing like everyone else, I’d just keep muttering, “Go down already, you orange idiot.” I really had it out for sunsets.
I spent so much time staring at my phone. Thankfully, all it took was looking up from my phone once in a while to make me realize that there are so many incredible things on my phone and that I should stop looking up like that.
I should have treated myself to nicer things, like a boat. I just wasn’t up for all the comments. “Oh, look, it’s the boat guy,” people would say. “Why are you dressed like a pirate?” others would ask. “That parrot on your shoulder isn’t real,” some would allege. “I can see your lips moving and doing the parrot’s voice,” they’d continue without evidence.
I wish I had donated to causes that I truly wanted to support, not just the ones that whales wanted me to support.
I regret spending so many years looking to others for validation and approval. I mean, don’t you think that’s bad? And what about all the time I wasted comparing myself to others? They have a better job. They have a fancier car. They have a nicer house with bigger windows. They look more content when they sleep.
I worked too much. Now, instead of lying here with memories of family and friends, I’m left with “work memories.” Like that surprise party we threw for Martin in the conference room. He thought he was going to a meeting, but that was part of the plan. I’ll never forget what Martin said when we all yelled surprise—“I thought this was a meeting!” What I’m saying is we lied about the meeting, and it worked.
I should have been more emotionally expressive with the people closest to me. People like my spousal cohabitant, the older couple who conceived me, and especially my twin spawn, for whom I’ve always felt a deep regard.
In the end, if I could say just one thing to my younger self, I’d say to trust people more instead of tugging on everyone’s mustaches and noses. If I could say two things, I’d say to take more risks in life. Bungee jump. Skydive. Unbuckle your seat belt in the car. Pet a frothy-mouthed raccoon. Cut the tandem strap tethered to your skydiving instructor. Mix barbiturates with alcohol. Say no thank you to colonoscopies. Live for god’s sake—live!