This Blog Is The Boy I Once Was (We'll See How It All Turns Out)

July 2008-August 2009

Writing Monster (Blogheara)

Hello friends,

I am concerned. I am concerned because there has been an almost criminal dearth of comments on my most recent updates to KMB, and honestly readers...this hurts me where my heart is.

I think it may be psychological for you cats. Apparently the entry Night Writing made people too sad. I find this strange, seeing as there have been countless similarly disheartening dissertations on my still difficult to discern emotions. Maybe we just reached a critical mass, like it was all too much for my beloved readers. The omni-present bitching, regardless of how poignantly expressed, overwhelmed everyone's sympathy receptors.

The fact that I could potentially be writing to empty air, that no one might read this for months is, in a way, liberating. (also lonely). I could say whatever I cared and damn the consequences. This is usually the attitude I have when writing, but occasionally, i will refrain from being too eviscerating in the name of good taste and common empathy.

I am one of the angriest people I know, but no one is ever directly affronted by my rage. I like to spread it out, mail little packages to neutral parties, so that eventually only a shadow is left. But the shadow is just as dangerous. It colors my perception, influences my interaction, casts a pall on every sentence i speak, type, or text. I don't know why this is. I like to pretend it's out of sincere motives. That I don't confront people I care about because I don't want to risk losing that camaraderie. And I realize that's probably disingenuous and being a crappy friend, but maybe i'm just that caring. Or maybe I don't care enough. Or maybe I'm just a wiener.

I don't know team. I'm used to using my Magic as a sort of outlet. A way to express myself with thinly veiled messages.

And for the past year almost every message has been directed at one person.

But i want that to change.

I'm tired of trying to please this one person, I'm tired of this, as Jordan so eloquently put, "Fight Club type situation," defining me and defining how i see myself. I'm tired of trying to insert myself in someone else' story.

I think I turned a corner the other day. I think I may have, if not resolved, at least articulated how I feel and how I want to change.

But I'm turning a corner like a firetruck. I can't do it alone, and i'm worried, i'm downright scared that if the driver in the back doesn't help me get around this corner; then maybe history is doomed to repeat.

But this person, this passive aggressive little coward is not who I feel like I am. I'm an angry son of a gun, I'm like Bill Hicks, without the addictions. (Also I'm funny). (TAKE THAT BILL HICK'S ESTATE).

So now i'm apprehensive to be all up on front street in the Magic Blog, maybe it's time I started behaving like a man.

A few months ago, I wrote an entry called Checkmate. It was good.

When I wrote this, I listened to La La Lie on repeat, it took twenty-two listens. All I could think was "Guess what? I'm done."

I realize that maybe that wasn't the way I should do things. Maybe there's no such thing as all or nothing; maybe i shouldn't focus on one relationship so relentlessly. Maybe I should find fulfillment in something else, rather than this imaginary wonderland i've convinced myself would make my life ever so grand.

Maybe it's a process, maybe it's gradual, maybe hours of dialogue and honesty aren't enough. Maybe every problem can't be solved by slight of tongue. Maybe sometimes it just takes time?

I don't like things that take time readers. I don't especially like things that take action either. I pretty much just like to hear myself talk. I also like to overthink. I think the overthinking is what does me in. I analyze everything so much and I expect others to do the same, to devote a lot of time to hypothetical pursuits, when in reality they have much more productive and probably healthy things to spend their lonely times doing. So when that time comes, when i'm free to pontificate; it comes out in a rush thoughts upon thoughts upon thoughts, a tower of babble, if you will. And after i have flushed my brain, I expect the other person to feel this same sense of relief, to see it as this wonderfully cathartic experience. Maybe they don't see it as that, maybe it's just a step in the right direction, not the destination. (Dinosaur Comics has made me realize that we need new metaphors world, i'm tired of everthing being about traveling or playing sports).

This is where I err. People are not all me. Things take time. I think I'm ready to take time, I think I'm ready to spread myself out. I think I'm ready to find genuine fulfillment.

I think maybe my love letter ends here. This is the conclusion of the pages and pages, and maybe it's better that way.

Or maybe it's just the first step.

I love you readers, even if you're just me.

Words Go Here (Snarky Words Go Here)

The following is an actual transcript from a conversation I had on Friday.



Me: Cutie reading a book i like beside me, should i talk to her?



Friend of Me: Comment on the book! You have a perfect in!



FoM: Yes!



Me: What if i misjudged? What if she's only attractive at a glance? What if it's required reading?



Me: Also, I smell like pizza.



(Eighteen minutes pass)



Me: I blew it.


An exposition.



After enjoying my traditional Friday 11am One Guy pizza (I don't like the numbers in that sentence or how they look), I walked to Holden Hall to endure my equally traditional boring fifty minutes of history discussion. The discussion in question occuring primarily between the TA and the weird kid with a mustache.



But today was different. Today, after loitering around looking for rollerblade girl (aka rollerskate girl, aka rollerskate skinny) (She is called this because she wears rollerblades, inside), I leaned nonchalantly against the doorframe of my room and was surprised to see a girl that had, until this point, never shared this particular 20 by 20 space with me at 12pm on a Friday morning.

She appeared to be cute enough, and the most striking thing was that, not only was she cute, but she was reading a book. Now, you must understand that this particular discussion of 25 people may have a composite IQ of 800, they don't take kindly to booklearning. Also, there is only one decently attractive girl, and she looks like she's seen more dick than a New England phonebook.

This new apparition was reading a book that I particularly enjoy, Down and Out in Paris and London by George Orwell. Not only does this book appeal to the imaginary expatriate side of me, but it also appeals to the pretentious side of me, because it's written by a well known author, but not one of his more well known works. So, being the sly devil that I am, I sat down beside her to make a quip about how I enjoy the book and then con her into falling in love with me.

Except, as I sat down, I panicked and sent the previously transcribed mayday text message. So, rather than make simple small talk, I just listened to my iPod and stared at the chalkboard.

This would have been alright, had she not been, literally, the only person sitting in this particular row of fifteen desks. She was sitting at the end of the row. When, I made my tactical approach, I sat in the open seat directly beside her. We sat beside each other and endured a classful of silence. We were the only two people in the row for the duration of the period.

I later gleaned, from her conversations with the TA, that I had never seen her before because she is in a different discussion and had attended this one for scheduling reasons.

The poor girl (who could have potentially been my future wife) had to endure an hour beside a guy who smelled like pizza, said nothing, and was apparently OCD because he kept peeking over and reading the title of the novel she was reading.

Yesterday, I went to a wedding.

I like weddings. They combine two of my favorite things. (Wearing a suit and the potential opportunity to do the chicken dance).

This particular wedding was a celebration of the love between a friend of mine who is several years older and her fiance, whom I had never met, but he appeared to be perfectly nice.

This was an outdoor wedding, I watched my friend laugh off crazy bursts of wind that drowned out the pastor and tossed various matrimonial accoutrements across the sunny plains, and how she cried as she read a sweet little poem from a rectangle of paper, and how, in what I thought was the sweetest part of the ceremony, as she read words of love off the same rectangular batch of paper, her fiance helped her secure a page that was flapping in the wind by gently guiding it into her hand; I was struck by something.

I am terrified of relationships.

Toward the end of the ceremony, the pastor started talking about the symbolic nature of the wedding ring and I noticed that every married man in the audience was looking at their left hand, gently massaging the ring on their first finger from the pinky.

Then I realized that I was doing the same, twisting an imaginary piece of metal round and round and pondering my future.

Then there was the weird bit in every religious wedding where the holy man makes the required statement about his power being vested by the state of Texas, and the bride and groom kiss and everyone claps and the parents dry their eyes and the ushers do their escorting and people filter into a large hall to exchange small talk and eat sandwiches and my terror spasm receded.

The reception was nice. I had tried to put my best politician's swoop into my part and wear a suit that was conservative but with a little punch of color, and I looked remarkably like the junior senator from Illinois or someone of similar stature. I ate a sandwich and said a few hellos and felt remarkably happy. It's difficult to feel sad at a wedding, unless you're in love with one of the people being married and you're bitterly attending just to be a good sport, but even then, you can take comfort in knowing that you have a good plot outline for a Hugh Grant-type picture lined up.

I drove home eventually and changed. Then I went to a friends house to celebrate his birthday. We ate homeade tacos, played nazi zombies, and discussed TULIP; and the whole time I felt wonderful.

Then I came home and watched a little Arrested Development and then laid down to sleep.

I was still basking in the post-wedding glow of the prospect of relational bliss and felt like I would soon be adrift in the land of dreams (which have been weird and sad lately) but it was not the case. Lurking beneath the comforting emotions I had been cushioned in all day were shards of crippling inadequacy rolling about in my stomach.

I reflected (and continue to be reflecting) on how happy my friend was to be married and how happy and laid back she was about the whole affair.

And it all just seems like too much work.

I don't want to find a girl, and put the work into pursuing her, and enduring the ups and downs. And what if she's high maintenance, or she doesn't get me, or i always secretly think she's not as into me as I am to her, or she is secretly not as into me as i am to her, or i can't provide for her like she wants or deserves, or i am too distant or too clingy, or we stop relating after a year and collapse out of love.

I don't want to have to find a house to live in or raise kids. I don't want responsibility, I don't think I can handle it.

I didn't apply for a job at the school paper because the application was too much work (three 600 word pieces and a letter of reccomendation), and this is what I want to do with my life. That's how little work I put into things.

I don't know. I don't get happy thinking about being married in the future, I just feel overwhelmed, and my life isn't even that stressful.

At least I have friends, it makes me a little less anxious, at least I'm comfortable where I'm at now.

I wish i had reassurance.