not another wave of hipster bullshit
I have two, distinct thoughts in my mind:
1. What If I Have Never Actually Done Anything Truly Difficult In My Entire Life?
2. What Is Wrong With The Things That People Around Me Are Willing To Believe?
and to be honest I am not sure which of these questions is bothering me more.
There’s something so invigorating about starting something fresh. There’s something so therapeutic about wiping the slate clean.
And there’s the little moments at the beginning of every new relationship. The butterflies, the nerves. The quick glances and the carefully metered reactions. The hanging on to every fact and the inquisitive questions at every turn.
We are curious, wondering beings and every new situation perches us before a whole new set of choices to explore and discover.
And my, is it fun.
Hey, can we talk about how modern technology is slowly destroying our ability to communicate in a sane and healthy way?
Can we address the fact that the more connected and able to communicate we are, the less likely we are to actually talk? Can we talk about how texting takes the infinite nuances and complexities of human conversation and condenses them into a couple hindered characters and a vague emoticon? Can we look at what social networks are doing to turn us all antisocial?
Can we think about all of these things for a second?
I’d rather just go check twitter again…
When you bump into him it’s the first time you’ve seen him in ten years. He looks the same.
“You look even better,” he says.
You do it at his place. He isn’t married, just like back then. He’s barely employed, just like back then. He’s still good in bed, just like back then. You tell him he hasn’t changed at all.
“I cry more now,” he says. “Sometimes for days at a stretch. Normal I suppose.”
You cry less.
“I also have more trouble going into buildings sometimes now,” he says. “Occasionally I’ll just start walking toward a building entrance and I’ll have to turn around and run. Part of aging I guess.”
That hasn’t happened to you yet.
“I also find myself following men who look well put together to see how they live and find out what they figured out. Is that something that just happens after 35?”
Yeah you don’t really do that at all.
“Anyway want to meet my squirrels?” he asks.
You tell him you have to head home.
“To your squirrels?” he asks, a little uneasy.
You don’t have any squirrels but just to calm him down you say, “Yes. They’re waiting for their nuts.”
He breathes a sigh of relief. He gave you a taste of your past, and you gave him the false hope that his present isn’t as off-course as he suspects it might be.
Happy He Cries More Now Day!
Hey, can I tell you a secret?
Tumblr has a draft note, saved somewhere by me. It’s about you.
I started it months ago, late one night in a state of mind that I couldn’t put into words if I tried. It started out angsty but innocuous. It was going to be vague and generic. People were meant to read it and see me as a pondering sage, wise and cryptic. But that wasn’t maintainable.
And as I lay there hammering out that stream-of-consciousness paragraph it became increasingly apparent that I could never in a million years post it. It was too personal, too raw. Too unbridled and emotional, even for some shitty pseudo-anonymous blog post that I can’t even be certain you’d see. It betrayed weakness, in a silly way that I don’t even understand. And that scares me, sometimes, in a stupid way.
So I guess it’ll live in my drafts forever.
One of these days, I’m going to finish it.
And I’m going to print it out.
And I’m going to grow some balls.
And read it to you.
At the top of my lungs.
Not even caring who hears.
And then I’ll spin around.
And moonwalk into the sunset.
And you’ll never see me again.
What the fuck?