I planned to write something new tonight. Or, to finish something old that I started awhile ago when I was substituting. It’s a piece of short fiction where the events take place backwards, sort of. Time is moving backwards, at least. It’s hard to explain, and amazingly hard to write. Like I said, I planned to come home directly after work and start writing it, but then some stuff came up.
First, my car brakes died on the way home. Being the stubborn and crazily suicidal man I am, I decided I would drive the rest of the way home without brakes. Luckily it was only two or three miles and my back brakes still functioned very minimally. However, I live on the hill next to Buttonwoods—I’m sure some readers know where that’s located—so I had to drive past my driveway and turn around, since I couldn't stop.
Then my good friend Dylan called me to go to Wendy’s, and we went, and we spoke for an hour plus. You know, about life and whatnot, and that was good and got me thinking even more.
I’ve been very introspective lately, even more so than usual. I think, perhaps, because I’ve been reading Anne Frank’s A Diary of a Young Girl. My very good friend of mine, a term I use when I perhaps shouldn’t at this point, said it was her favorite book, and when people—people who read often and who’s opinion I value—tell me that “enter title here” is their favorite book, I read it. She read my favorite books, so now I read one of her’s. Maybe we’re even now, or something?
It’s a remarkable book, by the way. A quote from it really got me thinking. Here it is. “I wonder whether you can tell me why it is that people always try so hard to hide their real feelings?...Why do we trust one another so little? I know there must be a reason, but still I sometimes think it’s horrible that you find you can never really confide in people, even in those who are nearest to you.”
This is incredibly true for most people, even for myself to a degree. I don’t share my secrets and much of my personal life, although this blog somewhat does that for me.
Overall, I’ve told only one person most of my secrets, my desires and my history, my life and myself, my real self, and I don’t even talk to that person anymore. Strange, that. It takes a lot for me to open up; I’m not sure what made me do it that one time(s). It was…miraculous and surreal, the sort of thing that can make someone wonder forever.
It may seem like I write everything on this blog, but that’s not at all true.
Anyway, my introspective self was thinking about last Saturday—I know, an entire week has passed—and how I spent the entire night in a bar, not drinking. You see, I really do detest bars. Almost everyone in the bar is putting on a show for everyone else, and often it’s a drunken, classless and sadly comical show. Don’t get me wrong; I enjoy debauchery as much as anyone else, but I enjoy it with friends rather than strangers. At a bar almost everyone you meet is fake, putting on a false face for everyone else, trying to impress and display themselves.
I’m aware that I’m stereotyping, but I’ll return to the resonating words Steve Almond told me—he’s a successful and amazing author who I had the pleasure of meeting and having one on one editing/brainstorming sessions with. He told me that it’s my job—and every authors’ job—to observe people and stereotype everyone, as everyone can be included in a certain group/demographic. So, basically, judge everyone prematurely and then see if they exceed your standards, or if you don’t talk to them, just stereotype them from a distance. Unfairly, but oh well.
I assume I belong to the brooding, upbeat yet nihilistic world-loather/arty writer piano player painting guy/funny and witty and crazy guy. Okay, I have no idea where I belong.
The “really fucked-up” group.
So, with about ten of my friends, we ventured out for Scott’s birthday, which I would be experiencing entirely sober, at The Harp and Dragon—a fine establishment in downtown Norwich. Cough.
And of course there’s tons of stereotypes as I begin to people watch. There’s the bro guys, sporting their backwards hats and each wearing three Polos, there’s the group of ugly girls trying to get any guy to notice them, there’s the extremely hot but amazingly stupid girl in the tiniest dress possible so that you can see her entire thonged ass—really, why are you wearing that dress at this bar?—there’s the most awkward couple ever on their first or second awkward date—really though, this couple blew my mind and gave me so much hope. The guy was so doofy looking, to an extent I cannot explain, that his movements alone were awkward, and the girl was easily the best looking girl in the entire bar, and you could tell by her general demeanor and facial expressions that she was horribly bored with this date, but trying nonetheless, as she’s apparently nice and lonely and wanting someone, and yes, many things go through my mind while I’m people watching—there’s the dude with hugely muscled arms and an extremely tight shirt that does not hide his protruding beer gut, and then there’s the group of very good friends who happen to be somewhat of nerds, a group which I belong to. I am, of course, a nerd.
The night goes on. I’m talking to my friends and some random people whose conversation I somehow became part of. This is one aspect I do enjoy about bars, and it’s even better when I don’t drink; conversations are so easy to enter, and when I enter a conversation, I tend to take charge of it, as I like talking and I have important things to say. Well, not so much the important part. Maybe I just like being heard.
I’m also horribly annoyed with my cellphone all night, as it’s a piece of shit and constantly turning off on me. I open it to text, and it turns off. I close it, and it turns off. Fuck you. While I’m talking in real life, I’m also having some strange text conversation with my friend, Victoria—all our conversations tend to be…absurd. Yet my phone won’t cooperate, so I just start banging it against things and somehow that fixes it.
I’m also ordering a lot of water and complaining about how hydrated I am. This makes strangers laugh, so I repeat it often.
I also see an old high school teacher of mine and a girl I swear I once saw in a porno. She was amazing.
At some point late into the night two seats open up so I immediately sit down, as my legs and ass hurt from doing too many squats at the gym. However, the girls who once occupied the seats eventually return, like fifteen minutes later, and of course I see this as a conversation opener, so I begin talking to these two people. One is not at all my type, and the other is okay, but I’m not here to meet anyone anyway. I just like to talk with strangers and find out about people.
So I begin talking to them, and two of my friends join in, and it’s apparent that the prettier one might fancy me, as she’s very intent on talking to me and whatnot, and by my random nature and that I’ll say anything, the conversation flows easily and without any direction or sense. She doesn’t seem to care, so that’s good. Somehow we get to talking about poetry and writing and she demands I invent, on the spot, a haiku for her. I, of course, fail miserably, but I really don’t try either. She’s not quite worth an on the fly haiku. I feel like that would involve some sort of strong emotion, perhaps even love.
Eventually the two women leave, and my friends, per usual, begin ragging on me because I did not get her number. I, per usual, shrug it off and say, somewhat meanly I suppose, that she’s not up to my standards. I am quite shallow and brutally honest and blunt, and I admit this freely and frequently. My friends have pointed it out numerous times now, complaining about me and how I so freely and often reject women. I wouldn’t be surprised if more than one of my friends thinks I’m gay.
It is a fault and blessing, to be honest. Some foolish people claim that looks do not matter, when they are almost always the most important thing…initially. Not at all in the long run. You’re not going to see someone you find unattractive and be like, “Yeah, I’m totally going over there to talk with her.” Physical appearance is what draws two people together, it is the initial spark and fireworks, and I’m fine with that part, I’m physically attracted to many people.
Quite honestly, eyes are what I’m most attracted to. I know that sounds strange.
It’s the other aspects of people—non-physical aspects—I judge so harshly, and, again, perhaps unfairly when I have many faults. You see, I consider myself smart, but more so, extremely witty and quick. I’m also not at all modest, but I don’t talk like a conceded jackass.
More than anything, I value intelligence and sharpness. If I may be interested in someone, and then she says, “I hate books”, or “Ewww, reading”, or is clearly a moron for some other reason, I immediately forget about that person. I’ll just walk away. Also, I hate dumb people, and dumb people belong with other dumb people. I’m sorry, but it’s true. You can tell when two dumb people are a couple. I know it’s mean, but I don’t care. Life is easier for them. Intelligent people belong with other intellects; that’s just how life works.
So yes, I’m highly attracted to intelligence and wittiness far more than anything else—along with physical features, of course. And that’s not me being shallow. I very much prefer people who care about their appearance, as I care about mine very much, and perhaps that is to the point of shallowness. Oh well.
So where am I going with this? I’m not entirely sure. I just found it humorous how my friends ragged on me, even made fun of me and called me a moron, and then went on to tell my other friends how “Schrage had this chick hitting on him and he didn't care, again.” And then the Anne Frank quote added another layer to everything I’ve been thinking about lately—how everyone puts on a show, especially in the “dating scenes”—scenes that I’ve found downright dreadful from the get go, and how having absurdly high standards is perfectly fine, even to the point of loneliness.
At least you then know exactly what you’re looking for and you’re sure when you find it.
No comments:
Post a Comment