Decisions — we all make them. Some of us do so better than others. For example, I’ve trimmed my beard with children’s scissors. That’s a questionable decision. But I’m not going to explain myself to you. It was all they had in that classroom, and Miss Soper was starting to realize my coloring was a little too advanced for a six-year-old, never mind the fact that I was the hairiest kid she’d ever seen. I just wanted my parents to see my work in the art show for once, okay? Evan said my Buzz Lightyear drawing was the best he’d ever seen. He said it was the best.

But enough about that. I’m into “oils” now. That’s what real painters call them. You should buy one. I’m on Etsy.

Not every decision is a good one. Some of them are questionable. Ask yourself, “Is it really in your best interest to buy the still life I did of my leftover Chipotle?” Maybe, maybe not, but I could really use the 20 bucks. Gimme a break, guys. I’ll toss in a rotting banana for free.

It’s not my fault I’m plagued by crippling indecision that forces me to make choices out of panic that are sometimes stupidly wrong. I’ve always been like this. In first grade, I quit karate because I “wanted to spend more time with my friends.” It was only once a week on Wednesday afternoon, and I was six — for real this time, what the hell did I think I was missing out on? Chill rides on my Razor scooter?

Actually, that sounds pretty dope. Although it would’ve been nice to have some sick fighting skills, like an ant when provoked. See? Questionable. Just like how I act like I’m exempt from that whole “do not eat raw cookie dough” thing Nestle’s trying to sell. It’s just propaganda. What value could those salmonella bacteria possibly see in me? I never rose to more than a yellow belt. I’m useless. Just let me quietly nibble away alone in the darkness of the kitchen in peace.
If there’s one thing I understand, it’s that some decisions are hard to make. I put my apartment up for rent on Airbnb, and now some guy named Apollo “borrowed” my credit card and is installing a tanning bed in my living room, and I don’t know if I have the heart to kick him out. I can’t afford that kind of purchase, but he also does some crazy magic tricks.

Besides, I’m expecting $15 million sent to me via Venmo from a Nigerian prince by the end of the week. It was easy money. Investing in him could be the best decision I’ve ever made. And who would’ve thought — I would have never heard from him if I didn’t still have my first email account. I have always been and forever will be duxdude59@aol.com. It almost makes signing up for RuneScape again seem like a good idea. Too bad someone hacked my account and got me banned. “Password123” might not have been tricky enough. I just couldn’t decide on anything better.

But you know what I did decide? To vote. I left the most ramblingly embarrassing voicemail to request an absentee ballot. I read the ballot initiatives hungover and in sweatpants on my couch. I drove to the post office and somehow waited in a line longer than five people, wondering if someone was watching me through the weird mural on the lobby wall. I paid an unforgiveable 68 cents for a stamp with a schnauzer on it, and I mailed in my vote for president of the United States and my home state representatives.

Because not doing so would have been more than a questionable decision — and I make enough of those as it is. Of course I care who you vote for, but I care more that you vote. Vote for anyone, as long as it’s not me. I’m unfit for office. I’ve worn the same pair of socks three days in a row before.
Ian McCourt is a senior television/radio/film major and registered independent because “The Rent Is Too Damn High Party” stopped recruiting. You can cyberbully him on twitter @OrderInMcCourt, or senselessly accuse him of rigging the election at iwmccour@syr.edu.

Published on November 8, 2016 at 10:23 am