I’m lying on the loveseat in my apartment, legs hanging on the oversized armrest. My neck is uncomfortable and hardly supported by on little, unfeeling throw pillow. The loveseat reminds me a little bit of Steve’s Thinking Chair on Blue’s Clues—though I guess Steve “went off to college” a while back, so now it’s Joe’s Thinking Chair. The loveseat is My Thinking Chair.
I’m trying to concentrate on this book, A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius. I really like it so far and highly recommend it, but for whatever reason, I can’t seem to pull myself away from the computer. I’m checking my usual round of websites every, what? seven minutes, as if anyone will have something new to say.
So far, no one has had anything new to say on Facebook, Gmail, Myspace, Blogspot, AIM, or MSN Messenger. I hear the fait sound of proverbial crickets singing when I check my instant messenger buddy lists—it’s fine that I have so many programs running at the same time. Also kind of sad and pathetic. Nothing has changed in the last hour, but there’s always that hope that something might. It’s a shallow hope, and the internet is an even more shallow way to talk to someone, but it’s something—better than nothing. That’s why I have this ridiculous machine sitting on my lap—so I don’t have to adjust very much when I finish six pages of this book and decide it’s time to make my rounds again, as if anyone will have something new to say.
Eff eff eff eff effity eff eff eff. Fuh until eternity! I probably won’t make it to Eternity for saying fuh, even though fuh is just an arbitrary syllable with no real meaning in and of itself. In this case, fuh is a tamed version of that particular word that will give a movie an R rating if used more than once. What if I said, fuh fuh fuh fuh fuhfiffity fuh fuh fuh? Would that change the moral rating of this essay?
Sometimes I wish swearing came more naturally to me. I have a hard time even typing them, caught in limbo on a morality scale because I didn’t say it but I know those letters typed out came from my fingers. I think there’s probably nothing like a perfectly placed curse word now and then, but apparently, I don’t really know. Evidently the first syllable of a curse word is the best I can do, no matter how frustrated or listless or frustratingly listless I feel. This book swears a great deal, and I think some of the uses are effective. For example, on page 190:
You will die, and when you die, you will know a profound lack of it. It’s never dignified, always brutal. What’s dignified about dying? It’s never dignified. And in obscurity? Offensive. Dignity is an affection, cute but eccentric, like learning French or collecting scarves. And it’s fleeting and incredibly mercurial. And subjective. So ---- it.
Even now, as I go to type out someone else’s swear, I can’t do it. I don’t have the courage to shock or potentially offend, even when using someone else’s words. I think it’s partially due to the fact that people don’t take me seriously when I venture to swear a little—they usually laugh and say something about how they can’t believe I just said that. My swears are comical, at least to others, regardless of how much fury or discontentment is behind them. I have a lot of discontentment behind that first syllable tonight. Not much fury. I have nothing to be furious over. But oh, I’m impassioned.
I wonder what it would be like for that boy in my English class to kiss me? I wonder if he’s the type that doesn’t like mouth-kisses best. I’m not even sure I know what kind of kisses I like best. I like all kisses best, except when they’re during a Halo tournament when you’re 15. Those kinds of kisses are filled with a very awkward juxtaposing sense of nausea and nostalgia. My Halo Champion just leaned over and kissed me—in the dark, yes, but definitely right in front of six or seven people. His mouth tasted like Winterfresh gum. My stomach used to turn a little bit when I tasted Winterfresh in the weeks following that night. Sometimes it still does. Nostalgic nausea.
But something tells me English Class boy, with his carefree slouch and smart comments that borderline pretension, wouldn’t stoop so low as to take advantage of my vulnerability during a Halo tournament. He probably doesn’t even play Halo because he’s too busy reading Donne and Keats. I can almost feel his perfectly, carefully unshaven chin in that secret place in my neck and it gives me a little thrill. Of course it would be much more thrilling in person, if he were here on My Thinking Chair with me, to pull this silly computer off my lap so he could fold me into his arms and neck-kiss me, and ear-kiss me, and nose-kiss me—and mouth-kiss me, even though it’s not his favorite. And he wouldn’t taste like Winterfresh, which is really such a presumptuous flavor for a mouth to taste like. There might be a little sense of urgency because he literally doesn’t know what else to do with himself, doesn’t know how to convey our compatibility, and I become Keat’s Bright Star. There’s so much communicated between us, without words, exhilarating and powerful.
Yes, maybe I do know a little bit what it would be like for him to kiss me.
It’s not that I feel lonesome right now. I just feel isolated. I have plenty of dear friends. Facebook tells me I have exactly 702 friends, in fact, and that doesn’t count the ones who aren’t registered on the site. No, I’m definitely not wanting for relationships. I don’t even mind being alone sometimes. I think I just want to captivate someone’s attention for a moment. I want to talk and move and reach and confess, explore, exclaim, discover, dance, sing, study, and reveal every inch of me that’s just bursting to get out right now. It’s difficult to do all that without identifying the proper way to get it all out of me, because apparently Facebook, Gmail, Myspace, Blogspot, AIM, and MSN Messenger aren’t doing the trick.
The irony is that I actually do have an audience. Somewhere between my round of websites, this book, and daydreaming, I started a creative writing assignment. Fifteen people will be required, for class credit, to read anything I decide to tell them. In the vast world of my associations, I have the undivided attention of fifteen people. And they have to pay attention enough to respond and give me feedback. Now that I have an audience, it’s surprisingly difficult to decide what to say and how to say it. Maybe I’m afraid?
I have half a mind to just get up and start walking down the street, reciting Lady Macbeth’s soliloquies. Out damned spot! I will shriek as girls jog by with their trendy iPods, listening to their trendy music, wearing trendy workout clothes. I don’t have a problem shrieking lines of Shakespeare that contain swear words. Shakespeare is established—those swears have proved themselves. Unfortunately, any remaining shock value, at least on this campus, will be lost on trendy running iPod girls and the like. Around here, I’ve noticed that people don’t say much by way of embarrassing public performances. They just jog by with hardly a glance. There is a boy I’ve seen singing his way across campus a few times, always at the top of his lungs, always with his Discman securely in hand. He has Down Syndrome. His atonal singing echoes uncomfortably between buildings, but everyone just smiles and scurries by because it’s sweet, right? That’s partly how I know I could scream To bed! To bed! To bed! all I want and no one would bother me about it. After all, I’m one of those who just smiles and scurries by.
But I want to be bothered. It’s not that I’m a spotlight-seeking attention grabber. There are just so many ways to communicate, and I’d like to take advantage of them all. That’s hypocritical of me. Here I am, reading a sort of meta-memoir about someone’s life experiences, but I can’t even respect the author enough to put my computer and assignments away, to give him my full attention. I’m treating the ups and downs of his life as a way to pass the time until someone will give me what I perceive to be their full attention. If I manage to catch someone online, it will be because they’re checking their email or doing something else important, probably—their explicit purpose likely won’t be to talk to me. I think I’ll ignore that reality, though. I’m feeling selfish.
I wonder if my arm tossed carelessly over my face makes me look pathetic? No. Just tired. It won’t spark any curiosity to inquire after my well-being, or my ill-being for that matter. It’s a pity when forced pathos is wasted on unappreciative and unobservant roommates.
For now, I guess it comes down to my need to be validated. I have all these unorganized things to say and only fifteen people to say them to. I’m not getting anywhere, not progressing if I say them to myself. It’s not a cry for sympathy or compassion, just a minute of perfect, uninterrupted communication between two people—between me and someone else, or maybe a few someone elses—to express every vulnerability and every concern and every joy and bewilderment and discovery. I don’t exactly know where to begin.
I have a small audience. Now what shall I tell?
