I need to go back to my old twitter ways. I really should just tweet my shenanigans in little 140 word spurts
I failed miserably at not letting this consume me. I spend so much time analyzing people and comparing their behaviors to my own weirdness, I may as well take the time to blog about it.
About a month ago I was having a conversation about obsessive behaviors with someone other than Sheldon. There are definite symptoms floating around but that is another blog for another day. I don’t want to be sad or frustrated right now. Plus if I talk about it I can’t pretend to be bewildered at my increasingly craziness. For example:
I lost my favorite Dr. Grip black on black ridiculously priced pen. I mean that is the kind of pen you don’t want to lose because it writes so perfect. I’ve written whole chapters of greatness with that pen. It is the kind of pen that if found it should be considered a small life’s victory. It’s lost and I’m so disappointed. I try surrogate pens no Bueno.
I plan a day of errands centered on stopping by Staple’s to replace that pen. I don’t even have $9 to spend on a pen but it has to be done. My mind won’t rest. I grab my jacket and The Pen falls out of the pocket. I shed 2 tears in happiness. True story.
When I started writing again I promised myself that I would not be a grammar snob. Especially since my own grammar remains questionable. But I am a snob. I can’t help it. I find myself wanting to take a red felt tipped pen to everything. I cringe more than ever mainly because I read 98% of my communication.
I find myself typing all condescendingly when I see mistakes. My nerves can’t deal with the flagrant disregard for any grammar law. “Dammit, you have abandoned all your fucks for Grammar.” I don’t think I have the time to describe my feelings for adults that vauntingly display their skill for misspelling words or making them look like gang signs.
Guise, I promise you that this issue is going to drive me batty. I am deciding the fate of a friendship right now because I know that each and every thought can’t be expressed with an explanation point. No grown man is this excited in life.
Third and final example:
So for the third time in a week I find myself at McDonalds. Let me remind you that I have taken up residence at the campus (I’ve accepted that its more my speed in that it’s easier on the wallet and I’m not intimidated my people with and real jobs and business to tend to) Campus or no I felt like I just stumbled upon a canasta game on a cruise for seniors.
I don’t want any hate mail or a well-deserved scolding so I’ll leave it that. I will say that the Yelp reviews were dead on I ordered a cup and a large fry and 10 minutes later I received my order with a smile. One of the employees was nice enough to ask me directions to the nearest Radio Shack as soon as I stuffed my mouth full of that first bite of cold fries and BBQ sauce. I wanted to let this whole encounter go as a matter of fact I still do but then a remix of the Golden Girls theme song started playing on the radio. Now listen!
Here’s my whole problem with today’s McDonald’s ambiance: I’m not ready. I’ve scoffed at the Peter Pans of society and been horribly impatient with my grandmother because I know what is in store for my own future.
I’m self-conscious about everything I wear. I never want to be perceived as trying too hard to be hip but I also don’t want to look like I belong anywhere that playing Easy listening music is acceptable late morning. Judging by my wardrobe today I am all of the above.
I fear being the 45 year old pushing the mop at McDonald’s at 11 AM. What could I possibly say that I have accomplished? I even fear the deteriorating mental state that I’m sure to be in by then. My pink running shoes are testament to the years I covet. Was my childhood really that shitty?
There are pictures of me being a kid enjoying life etc. but none of reveal that I would never let myself enjoy anything fully. There was always that huge life altering secret lingering. I would cut that part of myself off to this day I don’t have full honest memories of anything. I can’t remember the most important details about anything.
Eight hundred words later… I do so much obsessing about shit that doesn’t matter to the “normal” mind. I was going to write about Scandal but how can I not record my own messiness?