Mr. Serendipity's blog

Just.

Fail.

Suddenly I find myself remembering all of the mean and embarrassing things I've done.

And I wish people could forgive me, maybe start anew, maybe look beyond the past.

But really, I don't deserve that.

Why blame myself?

Could have done something. Too tired. Could have been awake. Too tired. Might alter the course of lifetimes. Too tired. Friends do stupid things. Too tired. The right thing to do is also the most difficult. Too tired. Might be away in time of need. Too tired. Will deal with the issue when it comes. Too tired. Nobody to listen. Too tired. No way to escape. Too tired. No way to escape. Too tired. Can only offer lame excuses. Too tired.

It hurts.

OMGOMGOMG

OMG I'M SO ALONE AND ISOLATED OMG I CAN'T ENTERTAIN MYSELF OMG I CAN'T FUNCTION WITHOUT EVERYONE AROUND OMG I'M SO BORED WHAT EVER WILL I DO!!?!?!?!?

OMG I'M SO TIRED OF EVERYONE OMG IT'S TIME TO JUST GO HOME OMG I'M SO EXCITED TO GET AWAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

You wanna know a secret?

I was at a department store the other day buying clothes. The cashier asked me if I'd like to keep my hangers. I replied, "No, I'm fine." She put her hand on her hip. "I didn't ask you how you were, I asked you if you wanted your hangers." My brother saved the day, clarifying that I was fine without the hangers. They then continued to converse about her kids.

I don't understand. I don't think I ever have, ever. Even the simplest of social interactions baffles the hell out of me. Now, I've been told that I see the world in a different way, that I'm unique. Maybe I just see the world the wrong way.

I grew up trying to read people, trying to interpret their every move. It's utterly exhausting. I'm constantly on edge, fearing that I'll slip up and offend somebody. And I realize that I expect this in others, too: I expect people to not only be considerate of other people, but to predict their feelings. I've also realized that this is ridiculous of me. How could one possibly do that?

Actually, I admire blunt people. I value their straight-forwardness. It's beyond relieving. I don't have to do any work. I'm so comfortable around these kinds of people, that sometimes I find myself falling asleep in their presence.

Ultimately, I think my tireless efforts are results of my own confusion. I need to understand, and the fact is: I don't.

I don't understand certain catchphrases. I grew up thinking that "I'm fine" meant, "No thanks." I don't understand when it's appropriate to say "I know" or "I'm sorry." I don't understand if nodding is alright instead of "yes." I don't know if "That's cool" is satisfactory input, so I keep talking. I always assume silence is profound, contemplative, indecisive. Not awkward, though. Just confusing.

I don't understand when to make eye contact. If I can see someone's eyes, my hope is that they'll acknowledge me in return. When they don't, I get frustrated, even angry. It's like I don't exist to them. It's like I'm not worth even a glance. Admittedly, I do this to others when I'm angry. Maybe it's because I know how it feels.

I don't understand when people want to be touched, and when they don't.

I don't understand how music can affect people. I don't understand tastes and distastes. The only way I listen to music is to listen to each song on repeat. Music is background noise; therefore, the more mundane it is, the better. A consistent beat is good. It doesn't distract from my thoughts. I don't understand how I can listen to something "upbeat" and still write this.

I don't understand how people can say they're doing fine and act the opposite. But then, why do people do one thing and say another? Because we're hypocrites? Because we don't want to inconvenience others? Because we don't want drama? Maybe it's painful to talk.

I don't understand group dynamics. At all. When is acceptable to speak? What if two people are talking at once? Who do you listen to? What if you don't have anything to say at all? Despite popular belief, I am not a social person. Don't get me wrong, I love my friends, but being in a crowd is... unnerving. I become restless. I'm most content when I'm not being questioned. When I can just do things. This only happens when I'm on my own.

I don't understand the awkwardness of meeting new people. Isn't the point of meeting new people trying to get to know them? What kinds of questions are off-limits? What is "personal"?

I don't understand how to deal with anger. How can you snap at someone if you're not angry with him? Is there such thing as "general anger"? Why is it bad? Whenever I get angry, people don't take me seriously. Is there normal anger and silly anger? If you laugh while angry, does that mean you're not angry anymore?

I don't understand why mistakes are bad. I'm a klutz. Are you supposed to learn from dropping something? Do people have to point that out? Is it their duty? Is this helpful?

I people watch a lot. So much perfection. So much flawless interaction. This isn't me being self-conscious. You have no idea how many times I've tried NOT thinking about what I say. I do it every day.

The fact is this: I do understand that there's no "right" or "wrong" way to be with people. But there definitely is a "normal" way.

And I fake it. I fake it all.

spread so thin

please take me away from here.

these days it comes it comes it comes it comes it comes and goes.

ugly.

hearing is not listening.

A PARTY OF ONE

WHAT DOES THAT SAY!?

IT SCREAMS IT SCREAMS

too late.

at once-

the need in me dies.

the need to write.

the need to eat.

the need to breathe.

the need to wake up.

the need to speak.

the need to listen.

the need to help.

the need to live.

i fulfill nothing by sitting here on this chair, surrounded by innocuous carpeting and perfectly normal halogen lighting.

and yet the nothing consumes me.

i am nothing.

-never will be.

So Many Ebony Ivory

i sit here with my headphones on and no music playing.

just the white noise, the noise-cancelling background sounds of the heavens above.

but not deafening.

and i wonder why.

i wonder why, i wonder why, staring at a blank screen.

why can't things be as beautiful as they used to be?

why do we suffer here in our minds, and then we look out the window and it's snowing?

big. fat. flakes. catch one on your tongue.

complications condemn beautiful thoughts, and i know what you would say. i know what you would have me say.

that there is balance.

so why is it so dark?

a bit from "It's too Late"

The Answer

When asked about life, the universe and everything, I promptly regurgitate, “42.”

The universe used to do things to me. It let me find five dollar bills on the ground (littered with cigarette butts) just outside the grocery store. It allowed for the frequent “faggot” insults cast in my direction. It spun the world ‘round and ‘round.

I was rendered breathless by the power, the importance behind such a number. Actually, it was the nihilism that scared me. The meaninglessness.

            Parking spaces at our high school were numbered. It functioned like a lottery: seniors would get the lowest numbers and the ones closest to the main doors. This, in my opinion, was ridiculous. Whenever I had a chance, (and whenever it was left unoccupied) I sat in a certain parking space after school. The same one. Somehow I thought that just sitting there on the molten asphalt would enlighten me. Some profound wisdom would be bestowed upon me. I could then stand up, brush off my pants, and walk away with a smile upon my face.

            This never happened. And the universe was at fault.

ahah

this is my fantasy
a sickly-sweet melody
made of cardboard boxes
and the reassuring glances of my neighbors
so love a lee

presently

gimmee that key
i would like you to see
how big that effing hole is--
the one in that door over yonder
so full of opportunity

momentarily

i'm sure we'd disagree
because there is no guarantee
of a perfect perfect planet
and your reflection in a perfect perfect mirror
so transparent with reality

impossibility

stop the fucking presses

is the first thing you see
idunno
unassuming, awkward, desperate?

because actually it's the button on a trench coat
or a prickly vine under an overpass
which, if they were to try hard enough,
could hide even the slightest
lip-twitch.

even that river in london
(so cold)
is totally undoubtedly irrevocably completely temporary.

i read something somewhere
about a man who did not know where he was going--
and every time he set foot out the door,
the very same journey awaited.

and there's a reason to notice things.
there's a reason to stand perfectly still.

there's a damn reason.