Peanut Butter, bread, milk, macaroni and cheese (Kraft of course, in the blue box)…A short list of essential grocery items that can be collected and paid for in under ten minutes…Bananas, orange juice, salami, cheese…I grab a basket and make my way quickly from aisle to aisle, picking up the familiar items that fuel me from day to day…cereal, granola bars, and canned soup…and that’s it. These quick trips to the grocery store take place irregularly, only when I can no longer stand going without breakfast because I ran out of milk a week ago. My roommates, my girlfriend, my coworkers cannot seem to fathom my pathological hatred for the grocery store and the time I spend in it. “I’ll go grocery shopping for you, I love it,” says one. “I don’t understand, you just go in there and buy your food,” says another. It’s illogical, I know. I’m not particularly interested in what I eat. When I get home from work I’ll grab a thick slice of cheese and wrap it in a piece of salami lunch meat. About twenty minutes later I’ll pour myself a bowl of cereal. I’ll drink some orange juice before I go to bed. It’s easier that way. No cooking, and I can watch TV or read while I eat these things. I really don’t feel the need to give what I eat much thought. My friends give it enough thought for all of us every time we go out to eat. Which is several times a week.
“I refuse to go Chili’s,” my roommate tells me. I’m not really set on Chili’s, but his adamant objections amuse me, so I suggest it often. The other roommate, who claims he doesn’t care where we eat, always manages to steer us someplace he’s had in mind, literally changing directions once we have piled into his car. My other friends have strong opinions on food as well, and deciding which of the hundreds of Houston restaurants we will deign to eat in always proves a challenge.
“Churascos?” This suggestion is immediately shot down by those of us working in the non-profit sector (meaning me). “Or what about that new place, [insert name of expensive restaurant here].”
I’ll suggest some simple inexpensive place that I”ve been to a million times. But on friend refuses, another wants to experiment, another gives her transparent “Fine" and gets a pouty look on her face. Usually I give in, considering that I really don’t care too much what food I put in my stomach, so long as I am neither hungry nor broke by the end of the meal.
None of these people drink much, nor do they bowl or play pool. They don’t attend parties, and there are few parks to speak of in Houston. So they eat. And then they talk about what they have eaten. One friend in particular has a remarkable ability to make a narrative out of a recipe, or turn a snippy remark by a waiter into a 15 minute story.
And here is the chief difference between them and I. They are foodies. I would just as soon stick to peanut butter and jelly, but they want variety and texture and spice in their food. I’d rather spend my money on a CD, or sometimes three or four CDs, than buy another meal out. But because I don’t cook and my friends like to eat and we live in Houston, I find myself eating out at least three times a week, sometime five or six.
Some of the food is truly delicious, however. There are few things better than Pad Num Peanut at Patu or good Chicken Tiki Masala. And you can't go wrong with a gryo from Niko Niko's or the just about anything from Spanish flowers. But really, it's about my friends. Although they sometimes drive me nuts and find that if I spend too many evenings with them I soon have nothing left in my wallet, it's the best way to spend time with them. Spending time at a restaurant instead of at a bar I avoid the headache in the morning that inevitably comes sometimes after only one pint (I know, I'm a lightweight), the loud music that prevents me from hearing 1/3 of what comes out of their mouths, and the complaining about the effects of second hand smoke. And besides, I have to eat.
Wednesday
The Rapture
It’s a Saturday night, and I have nothing to do, so I call everyone I know - my girlfriend, my roommates, my parents, my brother, a friend that I have not spoken with in two years, this person who’s name is in my phone but I cannot remember who he is - and no one answers the phone. Gradually, after the ringing and the waiting, my boredom becomes consternation, which quickly transmogrifies into a horrible combination of worry, self-pity, and irrational fear. Two possibilities loom in my head: 1) everyone in the world hates me and they are all screening their calls and 2) the rapture has occurred. I choose to dwell on the latter possibility since it seems less likely. I have been left behind. It’s a freaky feeling in a time when, between cell phones and the Internet, TV and the radio, you are the only human being in a suddenly very empty world. Even if you, like me, don’t believe there is or will ever be such a thing as “the rapture.” In the back of my head I’m wondering if maybe everyone is gone, sucked up into heaven by the gigantic heavenly vacuum cleaner. A kind of holy dirt devil in the sky, leaving only their tennis shoes and t-shirts and their cars careening off the sides of the highway, and me, a confused and struggling Christian.
It’s times like these that I turn on the TV. My friends are on TV. Friends is on TV. Or Law and Order. If one of those is not showing somewhere, then it probably is the end of the world. Watching people on TV reassures me that there are other people in the world, and it’s comforting in that way. And, honestly, distracting. Between the shallow self-centered banter of the Friends and the ads for face wash and pickup trucks, there isn’t much time to think about things that really matter. So I watch TV, or I pray and think. Until recently it’s been more TV than praying. But in the last few months I’ve begun to pray again. It gives me peace, and makes me feel as though I am not alone when all my stupid friends are too busy to answer my phone calls. So, I guess, praying is like TV. Only TV doesn’t give me peace. It just makes me feel lazy. They are both addictive, though. The more I pray, the more I want to pray. The more I watch TV, the more I want to watch TV. And buy that new face wash from that commercial with Scarlet Johansen.
I don’t quite understand any of this: my irrational fear of the rapture, my sudden urge to buy a truck after the 10th Dodge Ram commercial in a row, praying. There are reasons behind these things, I know. I’m sure there are social and psychological mechanisms at work, causes that can be traced back to my childhood, my neuropsychological makeup, and God Himself, but most of the time I don’t see them. I don’t know why I’m afraid of being left alone, or exactly how praying works, or why on earth I would need a truck with a Hemi. (I don’t know what a Hemi is, for crying out loud.) Someday these mysteries might be clear to me, but for now I just trust. Trust that I will make the right decision and remain one of the ten Texans who does not own a truck, trust that my friends will be there next time I call, and trust that God will answer my prayers.
It’s times like these that I turn on the TV. My friends are on TV. Friends is on TV. Or Law and Order. If one of those is not showing somewhere, then it probably is the end of the world. Watching people on TV reassures me that there are other people in the world, and it’s comforting in that way. And, honestly, distracting. Between the shallow self-centered banter of the Friends and the ads for face wash and pickup trucks, there isn’t much time to think about things that really matter. So I watch TV, or I pray and think. Until recently it’s been more TV than praying. But in the last few months I’ve begun to pray again. It gives me peace, and makes me feel as though I am not alone when all my stupid friends are too busy to answer my phone calls. So, I guess, praying is like TV. Only TV doesn’t give me peace. It just makes me feel lazy. They are both addictive, though. The more I pray, the more I want to pray. The more I watch TV, the more I want to watch TV. And buy that new face wash from that commercial with Scarlet Johansen.
I don’t quite understand any of this: my irrational fear of the rapture, my sudden urge to buy a truck after the 10th Dodge Ram commercial in a row, praying. There are reasons behind these things, I know. I’m sure there are social and psychological mechanisms at work, causes that can be traced back to my childhood, my neuropsychological makeup, and God Himself, but most of the time I don’t see them. I don’t know why I’m afraid of being left alone, or exactly how praying works, or why on earth I would need a truck with a Hemi. (I don’t know what a Hemi is, for crying out loud.) Someday these mysteries might be clear to me, but for now I just trust. Trust that I will make the right decision and remain one of the ten Texans who does not own a truck, trust that my friends will be there next time I call, and trust that God will answer my prayers.
Friday
Forgetting
I hide the red and white checkers of my paper wristband under my folded arm, explaining to my coworker what I have done. Or rather, what I have not done. What I have not done was pick up the Australian intern from the airport as I promised. An hour and a half after her flight landed my roommate called me: “Are you still supposed to pick someone up from the airport?” He had just read an email I sent earlier mentioning my promise to pick the intern from the airport, and so I left the bar as quickly as I could, the smell of root beer on my breath as I drove to the office to check if she called looking for her ride. She has, twice, from a payphone, because, being Australian and in America for the first time in her life, she does not have a cell phone. I tell the interns what has happened: “I feel terrible,” I confess. “Well you should,” they say, helpfully. My coworker tells me not to worry, though, and so I go home, feeling guilty until she shows up at the office.
I am only 24 years old, and here I am, losing my memory. Well, I would be losing my memory if I had much of a memory to begin with. Unfortunately, I have always had trouble remembering. Interesting facts, important dates, names, faces: these things march into my head and before I can find them a place to stay they quietly make their way out the back door. I am like the absent-minded professor. Except I am no genius. And I never invented flubber.
Now, you might be saying to yourself, everyone forgets things. No one retains everything. To them I tell this story: I forgot my friend’s wedding. That’s the story, pretty much. Cleaning my room, I find the invitation to her wedding underneath a couple books and a bill for car insurance. I send her a groveling email. Fortunately, she doesn’t really care that I wasn’t there. But still, who forgets a wedding? Well, the absent minded professor, I guess. And me.
I am only 24 years old, and here I am, losing my memory. Well, I would be losing my memory if I had much of a memory to begin with. Unfortunately, I have always had trouble remembering. Interesting facts, important dates, names, faces: these things march into my head and before I can find them a place to stay they quietly make their way out the back door. I am like the absent-minded professor. Except I am no genius. And I never invented flubber.
Now, you might be saying to yourself, everyone forgets things. No one retains everything. To them I tell this story: I forgot my friend’s wedding. That’s the story, pretty much. Cleaning my room, I find the invitation to her wedding underneath a couple books and a bill for car insurance. I send her a groveling email. Fortunately, she doesn’t really care that I wasn’t there. But still, who forgets a wedding? Well, the absent minded professor, I guess. And me.
Tuesday
Disintegration
“You haven’t washed your sheets since when?”
“November,” I tell my roommate. “So? They aren’t that dirty.”
“But all your skin comes off in your bed.”
I pause for a moment. That is kind of disgusting, when you think about it. It’s true. I am slowly flaking off, depositing bits of myself around the world as I live, replacing them with new bits. Someone once told me that you replace all of your cells every seven years. That means every seven years you are literally, physically, a different person.
I’m not sure what this means. This fact might explain why I am now allergic to cats, and don’t really like fruit snacks anymore. But it seems somehow deeper, but I am reluctant to start rambling about how every seven years we are new people, and oh, isn’t that just so refreshing and beautiful. It seems more like we are constantly decaying, each moment of our lives our body struggles to replace all that we are losing, and every moment, past a certain point in our 20s, it gets worse and worse at it. Our cheeks start to sag a little, our hair doesn’t come back in the same places. Each time I wash my sheets or clean my clothes, I am washing away my old cells, once young cells. I am, literally, washing away what I used to be.
Somewhere on the Great Salt Lake in Utah, there’s a large earthworks sculpture called Spiral Jetty. It is exactly what the name suggests, a large spiral jetty jutting out into the water. Slowly, it is being washed away, eroded over decades. There is now a debate over whether the late artist, Robert Smithson, would have wanted it rebuilt. Maybe replace those bits washed away once, or twice, but if I were him, I would let the thing erode away, become part of the sediment and rock sculptures at the bottom of lake. It’s more human that way, more compelling precisely because of it is temporary.
“…You should really wash your sheets.”
It’s not long after this conversation that I wash my sheets. It’s a small improvement. Dirty clothes wait to be dumped in the washing machine and boxes of junk that I mean to donate to goodwill sit in the living room. It’s difficult not to leave a mess in the place you live, easier just to deposit things as you go along, put them all away at once over a weekend. During my freshman year of college we threw our laundry behind the couch, and my desk was surrounded by a carpet of discarded papers. Eventually I would make my way down to laundry room, then throw out the papers, many of them covered with my notes and writing. I still have notebooks and folders filled with my writing, papers I wrote in high school and college, attempts at writing fiction. I will save these for a while, and I’ll throw them away when I am ready. Or dead.
That is why our cells come off when we are sleeping: because if we were awake, we would never get rid of them.
“People just throw away all that perfectly good furniture and buy new stuff without even trying to fix it.” My dad has brought home the shell of a dresser, a chair with no seat, and some wooden boards. “What?” he asks when I give him a funny look. He found these in a pile by someone’s trash, and has big plans for them. They will live behind our garage for a while until he refurbishes them or uses them in a project or he breaks them up for kindling. He has taken to driving the van instead of the car they bought for him because he can better fit the junk he finds along the road in the trunk. He bemoans old chairs, slightly broken vacuum cleaners, and tarnished scrap metal people toss away without a second thought.
My parents never throw anything away. The old newspapers are saved all year to start fires during the two weeks of Texas winter, every scarp of wood is piled in the shed for use with a future project, banana peels and grass clippings are dumped in the compost pile in the back corner of our little back yard. And I am the same. While I don’t pick up junk from the side of the road, I cannot get rid of anything without a fight. The uncomfortable shoes that cost ten bucks, the old X-men action figures, the cowboy shirt that doesn’t fit and I don’t like but I might one day change my mind about. It doesn’t help my problem that I one day used that shirt when we all went to see Brokeback Mountain dressed in boots and jeans and cowboy shirts and I had to dig it out of the box of clothes I was going to take to Goodwill someday. My closet is filled with all the junk that I should probably discard. But once I give those things up, I invariably think of something I wish you had saved, stories I wrote in the 4th grade, pictures of my friends from high school, my G.I. Joes.
Partially I, like my parents, hold on to things because it is wasteful to do otherwise. If I throw everything that begins to lose its shine away, I’ll end up throwing away my favorite books, and a nice old chair that just needs a little work. But maybe I also accumulate these things to compensate for the things I am losing. My oldest memories, friends I’ve lost touch with, certain opportunities. Getting rid of them means I’ve got to move on, make a decision about what I need, and don’t need, in my life. Discard a little of myself, or who I used to be, moving a little closer to my life, and, I guess, my death.
“November,” I tell my roommate. “So? They aren’t that dirty.”
“But all your skin comes off in your bed.”
I pause for a moment. That is kind of disgusting, when you think about it. It’s true. I am slowly flaking off, depositing bits of myself around the world as I live, replacing them with new bits. Someone once told me that you replace all of your cells every seven years. That means every seven years you are literally, physically, a different person.
I’m not sure what this means. This fact might explain why I am now allergic to cats, and don’t really like fruit snacks anymore. But it seems somehow deeper, but I am reluctant to start rambling about how every seven years we are new people, and oh, isn’t that just so refreshing and beautiful. It seems more like we are constantly decaying, each moment of our lives our body struggles to replace all that we are losing, and every moment, past a certain point in our 20s, it gets worse and worse at it. Our cheeks start to sag a little, our hair doesn’t come back in the same places. Each time I wash my sheets or clean my clothes, I am washing away my old cells, once young cells. I am, literally, washing away what I used to be.
Somewhere on the Great Salt Lake in Utah, there’s a large earthworks sculpture called Spiral Jetty. It is exactly what the name suggests, a large spiral jetty jutting out into the water. Slowly, it is being washed away, eroded over decades. There is now a debate over whether the late artist, Robert Smithson, would have wanted it rebuilt. Maybe replace those bits washed away once, or twice, but if I were him, I would let the thing erode away, become part of the sediment and rock sculptures at the bottom of lake. It’s more human that way, more compelling precisely because of it is temporary.
“…You should really wash your sheets.”
It’s not long after this conversation that I wash my sheets. It’s a small improvement. Dirty clothes wait to be dumped in the washing machine and boxes of junk that I mean to donate to goodwill sit in the living room. It’s difficult not to leave a mess in the place you live, easier just to deposit things as you go along, put them all away at once over a weekend. During my freshman year of college we threw our laundry behind the couch, and my desk was surrounded by a carpet of discarded papers. Eventually I would make my way down to laundry room, then throw out the papers, many of them covered with my notes and writing. I still have notebooks and folders filled with my writing, papers I wrote in high school and college, attempts at writing fiction. I will save these for a while, and I’ll throw them away when I am ready. Or dead.
That is why our cells come off when we are sleeping: because if we were awake, we would never get rid of them.
“People just throw away all that perfectly good furniture and buy new stuff without even trying to fix it.” My dad has brought home the shell of a dresser, a chair with no seat, and some wooden boards. “What?” he asks when I give him a funny look. He found these in a pile by someone’s trash, and has big plans for them. They will live behind our garage for a while until he refurbishes them or uses them in a project or he breaks them up for kindling. He has taken to driving the van instead of the car they bought for him because he can better fit the junk he finds along the road in the trunk. He bemoans old chairs, slightly broken vacuum cleaners, and tarnished scrap metal people toss away without a second thought.
My parents never throw anything away. The old newspapers are saved all year to start fires during the two weeks of Texas winter, every scarp of wood is piled in the shed for use with a future project, banana peels and grass clippings are dumped in the compost pile in the back corner of our little back yard. And I am the same. While I don’t pick up junk from the side of the road, I cannot get rid of anything without a fight. The uncomfortable shoes that cost ten bucks, the old X-men action figures, the cowboy shirt that doesn’t fit and I don’t like but I might one day change my mind about. It doesn’t help my problem that I one day used that shirt when we all went to see Brokeback Mountain dressed in boots and jeans and cowboy shirts and I had to dig it out of the box of clothes I was going to take to Goodwill someday. My closet is filled with all the junk that I should probably discard. But once I give those things up, I invariably think of something I wish you had saved, stories I wrote in the 4th grade, pictures of my friends from high school, my G.I. Joes.
Partially I, like my parents, hold on to things because it is wasteful to do otherwise. If I throw everything that begins to lose its shine away, I’ll end up throwing away my favorite books, and a nice old chair that just needs a little work. But maybe I also accumulate these things to compensate for the things I am losing. My oldest memories, friends I’ve lost touch with, certain opportunities. Getting rid of them means I’ve got to move on, make a decision about what I need, and don’t need, in my life. Discard a little of myself, or who I used to be, moving a little closer to my life, and, I guess, my death.
Friday
My brother goes to Stanford (revised)
It is just after midnight when I send my brother a happy birthday instant message. He talks to me for a second, then reminds me that in California, it is only 10:00. He is still 22 for another 2 hours. It is not his birthday yet and I am lame. The next evening, it is almost midnight when I remember to call again on his birhtday. I rush to my phone, and quickly give him a call. Fortunately, it is still 10:00 there at Stanford, and he has two more hours to enjoy his birhtday. I leave a message, becuase he is too busy partying and having fun to answer the phone. Or studying, which is more likely. And this is how my brother's birthdays go. He has to study for a test. His parents send his birthday present too late to arrive on his birthday. His brother forgets to call until midnight, or at all.
This is worse because he would never forget to call me on my birthday. He is a student, and broke, so he doesn't send me anything, but he calls me to wish me a happy birthday at least once, and remembers that it's my birthday frequently throughout the day. He is good and thoughful, and I, as I have pointed out before, am lame.
"This is going to sound really weird, but I was looking at your picture on the website, and I know your brother." I really thought this was behind me. I am now 24 years old, sitting behind a table at a career fair. I have not even lived in the same city as Jason for years, and still people know me as Jason's brother. It used to bother me. Even though I am a year older than my brother, not long after he started high school peple began to greet me with "Aren't you Jason's brother." It's kind of an embarassing thing, in high school, to live in your younger brother's shadow. Younger, shorter, brother. I felt like it said something about me, that I was so uninteresting, so non-descript that people could only identify me by my relation to my little brother. In reality...well, that was partially the case. But also, it said something about my brother. Not only that he is much more attractive than I am. But that people like him, that he is cool and interesting and fun to hang out with. Things that I was certainly not. There was a time that this realization would would have caused me to throw a pink squeeky dog toy at him. That time was the third grade. Later it just caused me to make lots of self-deprecating jokes about being known as Jason's brother. That was high school. And now, I guess.
This person, talking to me about how she knows my brother is his high school drama teacher's daughter. She remembers Jason even though she didn't go to our school. I like to tell people that my brother goes to Stanford. It hints at some things I have learned about him since I graduated from high school, how is smarter and braver than I am, how he organizes rallies and does what he thinks is right and says what he thinks needs to be said. He's not perfect, of course, but he forgives me when I can't even to get the timing right on a simple happy birthday phone call. "Yes," I say, "I'm Jason's brother. He's at Stanford now."'
About the Above story:
I wrote this for my brother on his birthday. I know, some of it is cheesy sappy mush, but I thought it would be a nice birhtday gift, cause I say lots of nice things about him. So I sent him the link. "It kind of made me sad," he said. "I mean it was flattering, but also sad." I was going to make fun of him for completely missing the point, but then I read it again. It is kind of depressing. So that's the last time I write the story at 2 a.m. while I'm feeling guilty that I didn't send my presents in time for him to get them. still, I'm trying to say nice things about him, and he picks up on the line where I call myself lame. This is how nice my brother is. But mostly, I was joking. Sometimes I am lame, and a big dork, and an idiot, but overall, my self esteem is really OK. So just take the complement you dork. And happy birthday.
This is worse because he would never forget to call me on my birthday. He is a student, and broke, so he doesn't send me anything, but he calls me to wish me a happy birthday at least once, and remembers that it's my birthday frequently throughout the day. He is good and thoughful, and I, as I have pointed out before, am lame.
"This is going to sound really weird, but I was looking at your picture on the website, and I know your brother." I really thought this was behind me. I am now 24 years old, sitting behind a table at a career fair. I have not even lived in the same city as Jason for years, and still people know me as Jason's brother. It used to bother me. Even though I am a year older than my brother, not long after he started high school peple began to greet me with "Aren't you Jason's brother." It's kind of an embarassing thing, in high school, to live in your younger brother's shadow. Younger, shorter, brother. I felt like it said something about me, that I was so uninteresting, so non-descript that people could only identify me by my relation to my little brother. In reality...well, that was partially the case. But also, it said something about my brother. Not only that he is much more attractive than I am. But that people like him, that he is cool and interesting and fun to hang out with. Things that I was certainly not. There was a time that this realization would would have caused me to throw a pink squeeky dog toy at him. That time was the third grade. Later it just caused me to make lots of self-deprecating jokes about being known as Jason's brother. That was high school. And now, I guess.
This person, talking to me about how she knows my brother is his high school drama teacher's daughter. She remembers Jason even though she didn't go to our school. I like to tell people that my brother goes to Stanford. It hints at some things I have learned about him since I graduated from high school, how is smarter and braver than I am, how he organizes rallies and does what he thinks is right and says what he thinks needs to be said. He's not perfect, of course, but he forgives me when I can't even to get the timing right on a simple happy birthday phone call. "Yes," I say, "I'm Jason's brother. He's at Stanford now."'
About the Above story:
I wrote this for my brother on his birthday. I know, some of it is cheesy sappy mush, but I thought it would be a nice birhtday gift, cause I say lots of nice things about him. So I sent him the link. "It kind of made me sad," he said. "I mean it was flattering, but also sad." I was going to make fun of him for completely missing the point, but then I read it again. It is kind of depressing. So that's the last time I write the story at 2 a.m. while I'm feeling guilty that I didn't send my presents in time for him to get them. still, I'm trying to say nice things about him, and he picks up on the line where I call myself lame. This is how nice my brother is. But mostly, I was joking. Sometimes I am lame, and a big dork, and an idiot, but overall, my self esteem is really OK. So just take the complement you dork. And happy birthday.
Wednesday
Better a Fool
I am twenty four, and it seems that by now I would be able to get through a party without spending half of it standing around awkwardly staring at the TV in the bar, but this is not the case. Despite over twenty years of practice (assuming I learned to speak before I was four, I don’t really remember) I still cannot seem to carry on a normal conversation with another human being. So there I am, at another party, trying to determine which clump of human beings I will attempt to communicate with next. The problem is, I cannot seem to figure out how to enter a conversation. I try standing next to them silently until the conversation lulls and I can interject something interesting or funny or clever. Once I find myself standing there, however, I cannot seem to think of anything interesting or funny or clever to say, and so I just stand there, on edge of the circle, staring at them as they carry on a conversation in front of me. I imagine this is more than a little creepy.
I have always been socially awkward. It feels like an accomplishment when I carry on a conversation with a person in an airplane. I come home and tell my family, “I talked to a guy on the airplane,” like a four year old telling his mom that he found a bug. “That’s nice,” they tell me.
It’s probably obvious at this point that I have trouble meeting girls. “It’s called initiative,” my ex-girlfriend tells me. Yeah, I know what it is, but knowing what it is, and taking it, are two very different things. It’s as if strangers and pretty girls are kryptonite for my brain, causing it to writhe on the floor in pain and confusion. I try desperately to think of interesting and clever things to say, and this, of course, only chases all the clever thoughts away.
Really, unless you are shy yourself, you just don’t understand what it’s like. I’m not just socially inept, I know when I am being awkward and making the people around me uncomfortable, I just can’t seem to do anything about it. Instead, weeks later I’m still thinking about the awkward conversation and the really funny joke that would have been perfect to break the ice had I thought of it half an hour earlier.
I seem to have the same reaction to every emotion. When I am sad, or angry, I get quiet. When I am angry or pensive or at peace or nervous or uncomfortable, I get quiet. This makes me completely unreadable. Sometimes it’s nice to be mysterious, the strong silent type (although I don’t know if anyone would call me that either), but more often than not it’s a problem. I may just be nervous around this girl ‘cause I think she’s cute, but she interprets my silence as boredom or distaste. But some part of me fears this interpretation less than what she might think of me if I actually open my mouth. In truth, I can be funny and clever, sometimes I even have interesting thoughts, but not when I’m nervous or uncomfortable. When I am around people with whom I am not completely comfortable, my charm retreats into the cellar screaming “Storm’s a comin!’” and the next thing I know I’m staring at my shoes thinking, “Did I just introduce myself as seremy nierra?”
How did I get this way? My parents? Did they pass the shy gene to me along with brown hair and a big nose? Insecurity, from being made fun of in school for my nerdiness? Something I ate? I don’t know, but it’s sometimes achingly frustrating. I can be all sorts of interesting and funny but what good is it if I can't communicate it, if everytime I have something important to say my brain goes into lockdown and I find myself stuttering the pledge of allegience or whatever else happens to pop into my head? Isn't it human to communicate our thoughts? What good am I if I can't?
When we look into the future, we always assume that someday we’ll flex the collective muscle of our species, and push off from the planet, heave ourselves across the universe. We’ll see Mars and Saturn, then whole clumps of stars sticking together, then the spreading edges of the universe. We can see much of it from here, but we want to be there, put ourselves into it. It’s that we’re curious and want to know the universe, yes, but more than that. It’s that we want the universe to know us. We can never be known enough. That’s why people are comforted by their faith that there is an all-knowing God, why we send radio messages into the galaxy, and why we communicate with each other. My biggest fear is that people will never really know me, because I can’t seem to tell them. Maybe that’s why I write, and have this stupid blog. I’m afraid that I will die, and only a few people will ever know that I’m funny and friendly and sometimes interesting. You’ve all probably heard that Abraham Lincoln saying, “Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak out and remove all doubt.” I don’t know, even if people know I’m a fool, at least they know me.
I have always been socially awkward. It feels like an accomplishment when I carry on a conversation with a person in an airplane. I come home and tell my family, “I talked to a guy on the airplane,” like a four year old telling his mom that he found a bug. “That’s nice,” they tell me.
It’s probably obvious at this point that I have trouble meeting girls. “It’s called initiative,” my ex-girlfriend tells me. Yeah, I know what it is, but knowing what it is, and taking it, are two very different things. It’s as if strangers and pretty girls are kryptonite for my brain, causing it to writhe on the floor in pain and confusion. I try desperately to think of interesting and clever things to say, and this, of course, only chases all the clever thoughts away.
Really, unless you are shy yourself, you just don’t understand what it’s like. I’m not just socially inept, I know when I am being awkward and making the people around me uncomfortable, I just can’t seem to do anything about it. Instead, weeks later I’m still thinking about the awkward conversation and the really funny joke that would have been perfect to break the ice had I thought of it half an hour earlier.
I seem to have the same reaction to every emotion. When I am sad, or angry, I get quiet. When I am angry or pensive or at peace or nervous or uncomfortable, I get quiet. This makes me completely unreadable. Sometimes it’s nice to be mysterious, the strong silent type (although I don’t know if anyone would call me that either), but more often than not it’s a problem. I may just be nervous around this girl ‘cause I think she’s cute, but she interprets my silence as boredom or distaste. But some part of me fears this interpretation less than what she might think of me if I actually open my mouth. In truth, I can be funny and clever, sometimes I even have interesting thoughts, but not when I’m nervous or uncomfortable. When I am around people with whom I am not completely comfortable, my charm retreats into the cellar screaming “Storm’s a comin!’” and the next thing I know I’m staring at my shoes thinking, “Did I just introduce myself as seremy nierra?”
How did I get this way? My parents? Did they pass the shy gene to me along with brown hair and a big nose? Insecurity, from being made fun of in school for my nerdiness? Something I ate? I don’t know, but it’s sometimes achingly frustrating. I can be all sorts of interesting and funny but what good is it if I can't communicate it, if everytime I have something important to say my brain goes into lockdown and I find myself stuttering the pledge of allegience or whatever else happens to pop into my head? Isn't it human to communicate our thoughts? What good am I if I can't?
When we look into the future, we always assume that someday we’ll flex the collective muscle of our species, and push off from the planet, heave ourselves across the universe. We’ll see Mars and Saturn, then whole clumps of stars sticking together, then the spreading edges of the universe. We can see much of it from here, but we want to be there, put ourselves into it. It’s that we’re curious and want to know the universe, yes, but more than that. It’s that we want the universe to know us. We can never be known enough. That’s why people are comforted by their faith that there is an all-knowing God, why we send radio messages into the galaxy, and why we communicate with each other. My biggest fear is that people will never really know me, because I can’t seem to tell them. Maybe that’s why I write, and have this stupid blog. I’m afraid that I will die, and only a few people will ever know that I’m funny and friendly and sometimes interesting. You’ve all probably heard that Abraham Lincoln saying, “Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak out and remove all doubt.” I don’t know, even if people know I’m a fool, at least they know me.
Thursday
Don't believe everything you hear
unless you hear it on NPR. Then believe it. I believe everything I hear on NPR. You think I’m joking. NPR is the artery of information from the pumping heart of the world straight to my ear. Some crazy senator may be telling us all how the public radio powers that be want to fill our minds with a liberal agenda, but then he sent Fox News to help NPR deal with his bias, proving that he is completely nuts. You want fair and balanced, listen to NPR. You want some crackpot telling you how George Bush is going to save us from the Aliens, watch Fox News.
No, whatever the crazies tell me, I know, NPR is the voice of God. Sitting in my car, blaring NPR out the windows, surrounded by familiar voices, I know exactly what is going on in the world. I may not know what Condoleeza Rice looks like, but I know exactly what she said yesterday. Morning Edition, All things Considered, This American Life, Fresh Air, Day to Day, Marketplace, All Songs considered. This is where I get my news, hear my funny stories, and get all my music recommendations (yes, NPR recommends Blackalicious). I want to be interviewed by Teri Gross. I wish Ira Glass were my best friend. Robert Siegel is my hero.
Now that I no longer have a job that allows me to listen to NPR for hours everyday, I'm lost. What's going on the world? What's the president's name again? How do people live without NPR? I wasn’t always addicted to NPR. But then I spent a summer working at a church, living with other church interns, one of whom listened to NPR for 5 hours a day. I would listen with her, and after a while, I found that I actually knew what was going on in the world. I sometimes even had opinions on those things. (My own, of course, not influenced in any way by the unbiased reporting on NPR). Just as informative, and a lot less time consuming than reading the news, I could do other things while I learned about the world. Exercise, play cards. Doodle. That’s how I discovered NPR, a whole world of stories and people and interesting facts. I started with All Things Considered. Just occasionally at first, but then I needed more and more. Eventually I discovered Morning Edition. When my job got really boring, I found This American Life. I listened to every show on the internet. This led to Day to Day. But still that didn’t satisfy my craving. I turned to the really hardcore stuff that no one listens to, like Speaking of Faith and The Infinite Mind. There are reasons no one listens to these shows. I’ve since stopped. But still, I need All Things Considered. I can’t live without This American Life. And so it’s one o’clock in the morning, and I’m listening to yesterdays Morning Edition on the internet.
No, whatever the crazies tell me, I know, NPR is the voice of God. Sitting in my car, blaring NPR out the windows, surrounded by familiar voices, I know exactly what is going on in the world. I may not know what Condoleeza Rice looks like, but I know exactly what she said yesterday. Morning Edition, All things Considered, This American Life, Fresh Air, Day to Day, Marketplace, All Songs considered. This is where I get my news, hear my funny stories, and get all my music recommendations (yes, NPR recommends Blackalicious). I want to be interviewed by Teri Gross. I wish Ira Glass were my best friend. Robert Siegel is my hero.
Now that I no longer have a job that allows me to listen to NPR for hours everyday, I'm lost. What's going on the world? What's the president's name again? How do people live without NPR? I wasn’t always addicted to NPR. But then I spent a summer working at a church, living with other church interns, one of whom listened to NPR for 5 hours a day. I would listen with her, and after a while, I found that I actually knew what was going on in the world. I sometimes even had opinions on those things. (My own, of course, not influenced in any way by the unbiased reporting on NPR). Just as informative, and a lot less time consuming than reading the news, I could do other things while I learned about the world. Exercise, play cards. Doodle. That’s how I discovered NPR, a whole world of stories and people and interesting facts. I started with All Things Considered. Just occasionally at first, but then I needed more and more. Eventually I discovered Morning Edition. When my job got really boring, I found This American Life. I listened to every show on the internet. This led to Day to Day. But still that didn’t satisfy my craving. I turned to the really hardcore stuff that no one listens to, like Speaking of Faith and The Infinite Mind. There are reasons no one listens to these shows. I’ve since stopped. But still, I need All Things Considered. I can’t live without This American Life. And so it’s one o’clock in the morning, and I’m listening to yesterdays Morning Edition on the internet.
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