This will be worth it when Alzheimer's kicks in

So I’ve been in an extended period of blockage. Everything I want to start working on just won’t come out and everything that’s in the works is stagnating and feeling boring. On the plus side I heard from a Chicago friend that John Elliot (Libertarian seminar guy) was disappointed in me which is sort of exactly what I expected after I sent him an email explaining why I didn’t really agree with him on much. He turned out to be a remarkably self-righteous and narrow-minded man. Not the kind of person I want to work for, or even be favored by.

Any way, things have been slow and I’ve got little to report or create so instead I’m going to finally post publicly that thing that I used to be proud about. I made a facebook status about it once and a few people asked to read it so they did. Chances are those are the only people that read this but just in case there are a few more folks I’ll share it. I entered this in a New York Times essay contest last year and placed in the top 20. When I first heard that news I was really proud of myself. But pride is constantly diminishing and replenishing in new ways so it’s just eh now. Here it is. Bear in mind, it’s about a year and a half dated now; “Julia” and I are long broken up, though I can happily say she remains one of my best friends and most admired people. The very terrible title is: Ever Talked To A Girl? Yeah, Me Neither, Really.

Every now and then—less now than then—I’ll be curious to know what’s happening with my ex. Generally I assume she’s become a serial puppy-drowner or made a hobby out of reaching into people’s chests and tearing their still-beating hearts out but, entertaining a shred of doubt, I’ll check her Facebook to verify. 

Then I remember that she defriended me (a term which apparently has not yet been dignified by Webster’s) a few months after we broke up. Right after the breakup, I spent an unhealthy amount of time on her Facebook page, staring hopelessly at her recent activity, recalling that my name was once a regular in that litany of wall posts, comments and photo tags. Now all I see is the profile picture of her and her not-so-new boyfriend and the little button taunting, “Add to Friends.” I’m a little ashamed to admit that Facebook can affect my emotions, but it’s genuinely upsetting that the only girl—woman—I’ve ever loved, somebody who I once contemplated marrying, isn’t even my cyber-friend. What’s worse is that, as long as we’re both on Facebook, she’s never going away.

It’s not Katie’s online presence that bugs me—she’s got just as much right to a Facebook as I do—it’s the nerve she had to void not only our relationship, but our friendship in such a public manner. I found out after she denied an invitation to get coffee about a year after we broke up. I was confused why she was still so reluctant to see me so, not knowing what else to do, I went to her Facebook and discovered I was blocked. Another embarrassing admission: I have not personally experienced, till or since, something so profoundly emotive as this cyber-severance.

The thing is, I never thought I would have to give up on Katie. She was the physical manifestation of my fondest memories: bi-winning in school and sports, getting into college, growing closer to my parents while they grew further apart, playing hockey and partying too hard with my buddies, the thrill of not-so-private sex, the comfort of knowing every inch of another’s body and the expectation of her completing my thoughts; to this day she still permeates all my high school nostalgia. To me, Katie was perfection, and as I sank into depression during a long and lonely Winter Term she became the antithesis that I loathed but longed for.

My freshman year I designed a home-based Winter Term project so I could spend time with her during her senior year. Demonstrating her appreciation she dumped me a few days after Christmas. She cried, which was awkward, so I didn’t say much except to suggest we still hang out in January. Happily, she agreed. 

However, the time spent texting to time spent in person ratio was astronomical; think like Bullwinkle to Rocky body mass ratio or New York’s hipster to hippies ratio. As-tro-nom-i-cal. She persistently made excuses and ignored texts and I only grew more desperate, still deluded that she might come back. I became angry, accusing her of avoiding me and constantly lying to me. I was rude—mean, even—in my accusations and, justifiably, she stopped answering my calls.

When I returned to school I rebounded fast with my experimental lesbian lab partner. Never before had I had sex with somebody I wasn’t dating, and breaking that ice with Nicole was something else. Let me mention again that she was a lesbian; in the heteronormative sense, I took her virginity.

Nicole was communicative to an almost uncomfortable degree. Every ten seconds or so she’d ask if she was doing everything alright, not realizing that as long as I was conscious and hard I wasn’t going to nitpick. You see, college instills these weird, inconsistent sex guidelines in students: on one hand, there’s the communication imperative, where unless you’re engaged in running dialogue something is wrong; on the other, it’s the BDSM notion that unless you spent the night physically bound to a chair and wake up the next morning with tender wounds and a limp the sex was wasted. Nicole, I think due to inexperience, was of the communication camp. As for me, I had sex in high school so I don’t really think about it much beyond getting the OK and throwing on a rubber.

Nicole did not stay straight—I guess the grass wasn’t greener—but her nonchalant bisexuality gave me my first genuine “college” experience; just screwing for the sake of screwing. It was liberating for a week or so, but it didn’t get me over the breakup hump. While I was honored that Nicole made me her male experiment, she mostly just reinvigorated my desire for the straight girl that left me.

Weekend after weekend I couldn’t get Katie out of my head. Every girl fell short and again I felt desperate. It had been about a month since my last contact with her when I decided on the ultimate romancing to get her back.

My romance gene is unfortunately somewhat stunted. However, thanks to my $200,000 intuition I can certainly recognize romance when I see it. I knew that winning Katie back would require an emulation of a great moment in romantic pop culture. I rejected models from Say Anything for lack of boombox, Vicky Cristina Barcelona for lack of sexy Spanish accent, Eternal Sunshine for lack of meta-technology until, like a speeding bouquet, it hit me. The Notebook: 365 days, 365 letters. What teenage American girl doesn’t crave that kind of attention? Given, I’m no Ryan Gosling, but it’s the persistent, invasive thought that counts. Of course, nobody actually sends letters anymore and I sure wasn’t going to start, so I made a 21st-century adaptation.

Facebook seemed the best, but proved the worst way to manage this problem. I began a process of finding funny videos and Facebook messaging them to her with witty captions. This was a dumb, very creepy idea, I realize this now. But if The Notebook couldn’t help me, I didn’t know what could.

On the seventh video I made an allusion to her new boyfriend’s sexual incompetency (Read: I asked her how she felt taking someone’s virginity). She wasn’t too happy about that and formally requested that I stop talking to her. That was a tough cookie to swallow. But, beginning to see how much I was probably freaking her out, I sucked it up and let her go for awhile. A few quiet weeks passed and I continued moping and whining. And then, without even realizing it, I met someone.

I didn’t mean to meet her and, honestly, I forgot her face after our first introduction—something that is about as commonplace for me as shaving my armpits. So, not commonplace. We spoke briefly at a mutual friend’s birthday dinner and I hardly paid her any attention due to greater interest in my burrito.

The day after we met she Facebook friended me. Naturally I took this as a sign that she was interested. Facebook is much more nuanced than people give it credit for; if you friend someone of the opposite sex (or same if you’re both into it) you’re more or less presenting like a panda at the zoo. It’s like a damn jungle on that social network. 

Justifying the zoo animal theory, about 15 minutes after I accepted her friend request she asked on my wall if I wanted to hang out. This was a textbook example of what many refer to as a “Facebook workie.” Via ostensibly innocuous wall post, she was implying that she wanted to hook up. Though I barely remembered her, I thought it silly to not take this chance so I invited her to watch a movie in my room the next night.

Julia and I now consider that night our anniversary. At this moment I’m sitting at Gate 14 at JFK International Airport (which is much more comfortable than Bratislava—I mean, Laguardia Airport) waiting to board a plane to spend spring break with her at King’s College, London. Looking back on the past year, I can’t really say how I got here.

Initially Julia and I were just using each other to rebound from bad breakups. The use just never really ended. Without saying anything about it, we started spending more time together and doing special things like seeing the midnight premiere of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. Somehow I became closer to her than I am to almost anyone else. I’ve known her barely a year but I feel like she could talk me into or out of anything. Normally that would scare the bageezus out of me, but instead I love having someone who always knows exactly what I need to hear.

Love. I have to catch myself there, because love isn’t quite what I feel. I mean, I basically met Julia on Facebook. Not Match.com; Facebook. For some reason that’s discomforting to me. Is this what love is in the 21st century? Meeting a person from behind a screen and hoping it will work out well enough in person to forget the past? It has worked so far—I had to really dig deep to remember Katie details—and I think it will continue to work. Still, I met Julia on the internet! Isn’t life’s first lesson, “don’t arrange meetings with strangers on the internet?” Okay, I never expected Julia to be a child molester, but then again, I didn’t expect her to be perfect either.

Facebook, texting, loose morals, and all that jazz make falling in love a somewhat impersonal and almost unnatural event nowadays. I’ve used technology to “court”—if that’s still a relevant term—the opposite sex frequently in place of initiating a real, personal conversation. It’s like we’ve reached a modern adaptation of the love letter and tripled its use. I guess this new love methodology is consequence of a rapidly flattening and totally awkward planet. If so, I’m a totally awkward guy who is reaping the benefits.

So I was going to speak to camp chapel today after the weekly former boy propaganda/life lesson speech. I was really excited about it and I was happy with what I was prepared to say. Bbbbbutttt then the former boy spoke for literally the entire chapel period leaving no more room for me and the counselor who was on slate to sing a song. Oh well, so it goes. It’s written, however, and probably will never be spoken so it will instead live in eternal neglect here.

Today is the end of another week at Mayhew, and the beginning of the Week of Decision. But though the focus of your Mayhew experience may change, the time for reflection never truly ends. I’d like to begin this next week with a story about a very close friend of mine, Jasper, who has a somewhat spotty record of decision making. Well actually, Jasper’s my best friend. Jasper is my dog. And Jasper, like all of us, makes thousands of decisions everyday, and learns from each of them. But, just like all of us, he wasn’t always that way.

Before I knew him, Jasper made an enormously bad decision. At the time, it was the worst decision of his life. He bit the hand that fed him. He was sent to the pound, removed from his cozy life and deemed dangerous to anyone who might adopt him. Without realizing it, he had destroyed everything he knew and put himself in terrible danger.

But Jasper wasn’t a bad dog, he was just young and ignorant of the limits expected of him. At the pound he showed his true nature. He was active, social, well-behaved, and one day his smiling face and bubbly attitude made an impression on a woman who needed a friend. It didn’t seem to bother her that he was the size of a baby orca whale and still growing.

Released from the pound, he instantaneously made a few more very bad decisions. When the woman stopped at the grocery store on the way home, he was nervous and confused about being left alone in a strange car. So he jumped out the open driver’s window and began hunting for the home that was still a faint memory in his mind and nose. Through a parking lot and into highway traffic. By sheer dumb luck this first decision had no immediate consequence. Cars avoided him and a good samaritan, hearing the woman’s frantic calling, managed to wrap up the lunatic dog and bring him back to the car. I wish I could have seen this for I have never once in my life been able to run him down. 

Back in the car and on to the next errand, Jasper seemed to have calmed down and realized the mistake he’d made. The woman was caught on her heels once again, this time at a bicycle store. Jasper bolted over her lap when she opened the door like the flying horse, Pegasus, and into the store for he didn’t know any other way to ask to take ten. He relieved himself on the athletic socks at the front of the store, much to the shock of all the bicyclists, and to the extreme embarrassment and inconvenience of the woman who left with a half-dozen new pairs of pre-washed socks.

Jasper had now three times chosen to ignore and scorn the help being offered him. He had done so hastily and stupidly. He acted before he thought and now faced a situation where his decisions had left him in a place where many of us find ourselves routinely. At the mercy of others. Whether they be our parents, our teachers, our bosses, our friends, each one of us have made and will continue to make decisions whose consequences are not in our own hands. Our decisions affect others, and so others may affect us in how they respond to them. Jasper had given the woman enough reason to bring him straight back to the pound. But the woman, my mother, had her own decision to make. And she was far too proud to let this animal get the best of her.

She threw him back in the car and drove to pick me up from school. The look on my face when I saw Jasper pacing in the backseat of the car—literally pacing, like a lion contemplating its next meal, or Greg when he’s making an announcement— removed all the doubts she held about jumping in for the long haul. She had drastically improved two lives by digging in her heels and refusing to give in.

Jasper has made many, many, many more bad decisions since he joined my family. There was the time he jumped on to the blade of a snow shovel, slicing an artery and spending the two weeks after he was neutered wearing a lamp shade and a yellow, smiley face cast. The day he miraculously overturned a burning crock-pot of beef stew and ate the entire twelve portion pot by himself. The moment he finally caught an SUV and realized it was a bit out of his league. The countless times he’s run three streets over to play with another neighborhood dog, or jumped in the pond in the backyard just when we’re about to leave the house, or dropped something in the toilet causing the pipes to burst (yes, that’s happened multiple times).

But he’s made many good decisions, too. Never once biting anyone who has come to the house. Becoming addicted to tennis balls. Learning to wait patiently at a local restaurant for the host to come give him a treat. Harboring an intense hatred for the rabbits who plunder our garden. And giving himself over to love.

What we remember most about Jasper, however, is that the worst mistake he made in his life is also the one that we consider the best. The bite that cast him from his first home brought him into ours. It’s a mistake that he can’t ever take back, and perhaps it’s one that he forgets, but it’s one that has made a permanently positive impact on everyone in my family and one that, with every good decision he makes, makes us incredibly thankful that he once messed up big. You won’t always do the right thing. You will almost never make everybody happy with what you choose to do. Every single day of your life you will make some bad decisions. You will almost definitely do the severely wrong thing at least once in your life. But its not these bad decisions that make you who you are, it’s how you recognize, recover, and rectify them. Recognize who they affect, recover by forgiving yourself, and rectify by making amends with those you hurt.

Life isn’t a highlight reel of special moments. It’s a long and impossibly delicate tapestry woven through happiness, sadness, frustration, pain, concern, anticipation, sickness and in health. And not the least bit alone. Parts of your tapestry won’t be put there by you. Parts of your tapestry you will never know were ever even there. You will receive help along the way, just as Jasper has, and its very likely you will forget it. But it’s the threads of your own important and thoughtful decisions who will connect most beautifully and remain most radiantly even after you’re gone. Because they’re the ones you inscribe on the things you love.

An actual camp post is on the way, free time is just incredibly hard to come by.

There are so many things I wanted to say but can’t remember. So many people I wanted to mention but who continue to slip away in gestures and whispers. So many seconds I wanted to relive in the enduring glimmer of my tumblr. But there’s precious little time and less incentive to fortify what’s past.

Instead I, we, move into the now, consciously bringing little to nothing from the step before. And I, we, forget it. Forget where we learned the things we know now. Forget why we look both ways when we cross the street. Forget why we take the long route up the mountain. Forget why we talk to strangers. And then we second guess everything because we can’t remember why we might do it in the first place.

I suppose it’s a part of life and growth to repeatedly place ourselves into uncomfortable situations where we know no one and swim in ignorant stress and awkward lingo limbo for indefinite periods of time. It’s a scary but ultimately rewarding rupturing of the bubble. My problem is that it never lasts, and I never learn. It’s sad. In Chicago—of which no more will be said—I met some people that in another, more permanent setting, I could have easily called my best friends. I had a genuine crush, the first I’ve had since Katherine, and felt great when I was with her. Another few weeks and I could have fallen dangerously in love with Chicago. But now that it’s gone I find myself drawing parallels instead of offroads. Everything is neatly categorized and compared to memories that have already existed. Nothing feels new. And that feels wrong.

Life moves fast, but every time I stop to look around it looks just like it did 2 years ago. I’m missing nothing and I’m missing everything. It’s a terrible conundrum. I started this blog so I could remember the things I’m apt to forget. Except I’m realizing now it’s not so much that I forget as much as I coalesce. Nothing, no one, nowhere stands unique in my mind. The doses of change I’ve taken have been ostensible placebos. I’m unaware of any difference in me or in any of the things around me from any other time in my life. Is this just an early-life crisis thing?

I’m living in New Hampshire while the floorboards of my life literally shuffle beneath my feet. I’ll never sleep at 199 North St. again. I will never sleep under the same roof as both of my parents again. My memories of that house and an intact family will lose credence at a faster rate than they already are. Beer Olympics is over for good. Change might actually start to mean something. How do you know if you’re ready for change if you’ve never cared about it before?

So I need to interrupt the Libertarian conference saga because time doesn’t wait for Tumblr. My life is different now than it was last week. I’m in New Hampshire. Working at a camp.

And I need to come up with a cabin name.

Here are some ideas:

Amoebas

Bacterial Infections (I don’t know why I like the pathogens so much)

Mystery Inc.

Action League

Stone Cold Motherfuckers (just kidding, but see how desperate I’m getting?)

Really this is just a lure to see if anybody, including my 3 followers, reads my blog. So let me know via Facebook or text or something. I’ll probably forget about writing this so no biggie if the cyber-ness stays silent.

(Note: I wrote this on Pages and copy-pasted it here so the formatting might be weird. Of course, it would only be weird if you’ve ever read anything here and that’s sort of unlikely.) I’ve really got to get better at updating this. It’s only been a week but already so much has happened there’s just no way I can remember it all. It’s probably okay, you don’t really need to know everything. I’ve already started the summer job in New Hampshire so this should be a whole new chapter entirely, but I did promise some Libertarian conference coverage so let’s do that first. I’ve only got a little free time—which will be the case all summer probably—so this is going to have to be quick. Since the seminar was basically just lecture after lecture after lecture I think I’ll just organize my thoughts by lecturers. Mollie Hemingway: Freelancer, columnist at the Wall Street Journal. Mollie was a pretty cool lady and definitely knew the journalism business pretty well. After her first lecture I was pretty excited about the week. She really made it seem like you can control your own destiny; build your own style, pursue what you’re interested in, get in contact with the right people, etc. My biggest issue with her, as with most of the lecturers, was that she really only talked about herself. I suppose it’s appropriate since she can really only speak about her own experience, but I learned later that, nope, she really is just a bit of an egoist. At the very first social a group of us got into a long conversation about gender and social norms—so incredibly Oberlin I almost ducked out immediately. However, unlike Oberlin, Mollie and co. were strongly defensive of the status quo. Mollie’s a mother and is distressed by the negative application of feminism to families who encourage gendered pursuits for their children (i.e. girls play with barbies, boys play with trucks kinda thing). Everybody—and by everybody I mean Mollie and the two sycophantic kids who leaped on every nanosecond silence like hungry, hungry hippos—took serious issue with a lesbian couple in the news that was raising their boy as a girl. Personally, I agree, I think forcing a child to be transgender is an incredibly dicey experiment, and one that really isn’t fair to an impressionable little kid. Still, Libertarianism is about personal liberty, right? Who am I to say they’re wrong? Wouldn’t taking that child away, or regulating parenting in any way be an invasive extension of government? The whole conversation proceeded as if traditional gender norms and social conventions were in danger from a harmful minority; everyone was just so remarkably unaware of how loopy and hypocritical they sounded. My friend Dan and I got up and left after Mollie “brought us full circle” to the recent cannibalism incidents as results of social norms coming under attack. Other than that weird incident, though, she was pretty cool. Ben Berger: Political Science professor at Swarthmore. Ben was probably one of my favorite lecturers at the conference. The first night, at the same social as Mollie’s convo, he was one of the few true adults to take a genuine interest in the students rather than present himself as a resource. He’s a pretty staunch Libertarian but he was holistic in his lectures on political philosophy, drawing from theorists across the political spectrum to explain why we have governments and what we should expect them to do. He supported points with Simpsons episodes and famous lyrics, so that was cool. My biggest issue with him—of course, there’s always an issue—was in one of his lectures. We played this little game that was intended to illustrate the value of free trade. Everyone was given some items bought from the dollar store and asked to assess their value. Then we were allowed to trade within our section of tables and re-assess the value of what we had gotten. Again we were allowed to trade, this time with everyone in the room, and obviously the general satisfaction went up. This whole exercise just felt insultingly simple, and made me question the sanity of everybody at the conference. Trade is absolutely, 100% not always on an equal playing field. Despite their arguments for free trade—economic openness promotes wealth, unmitigated trade will provide folks with what they need—they ignore the fact that people are fucking douche bags and will always lie, cheat, and manipulate the weak to become wealthier. And they do. It only takes one cheater to make everybody else forget their moral . All in all, Ben was a good, open-minded guy, but I still wonder how he could sell such selective bullshit to us.

Well, I’m home. Well, I’m not home, I’m in Chicago. I was home, but since this blog is mostly for people who I know from home (and I suppose Oberlin, too) you already know what I did when I was home since you mostly did it with me. Now, as I said, I’m in Chicago attending a seminar entitled, Journalism and a Free Society through George Mason University’s Institute of Humane Studies, a Libertarian organization that’s been educating/breeding/brainwashing young, prospective journalists since for almost 50 years and putting them in contact with pretty cool people who are good at inciting arguments. Although I am neither Libertarian nor conservative I was drawn by the $3,500 stipend their summer internship program offers. As most of you know by now, I didn’t get an internship. I got an invitation to a seminar. A seminar for people who have starkly different political and social philosophies that I do. Nonetheless, the director, John Elliot, seems to think that my wariness of corporatism and fundamental issues with American media are conducive enough to the tenants of “liberty” (a term that’s been used A LOT and I’m still trying to get a firm grasp of) to let me in on the fun. I’m happy he did. I’ve met and heard lectures by some inspiring, knowledgeable people who I only disagree with about 40% of the time. Let me tell you about what’s been going on.

Quick aside: for those of you looking for some closure on my time in Edinburgh, I’m sorry, I don’t really want to talk about that right now, ask me some other time. I will say that the power lines and grungy public transit of Chicago were a bit culture-shocking after Edinburgh. That, and the magic of the Taco Bell Beefy Nacho Burrito. Holy shit it’s good, I don’t know how I saw commercials in Scotland and didn’t catch the next flight home.

But back to Chicago. Here. Now. Here is my bed in room 244 of Regis Hall at Loyola University of Chicago. Now is 11:37 P.M. I’ve been in and out of lectures all day, starting at 9 AM, ending at 10:15 PM. BUT! There was a day before today—a day in which I first arrived at Loyola University of Chicago. Another quick aside: I don’t know why I’m writing like this tonight, I think it’s got something to do with sleeping 12 of the last 72 hours and drinking coffee in 4-hour intervals of the other 50. I’m in a weird fucking mood. Well, not like horny just, like, feeling strange. A sentence can change salaciously based on where you place your fuck.

Alright, so I got here yesterday. Beautiful weather, Chicago’s gorgeous, Lake Michigan is enormous and eerily clean (pun intended), yada yada yada. I checked in five minutes before check-in time because I got in a bit early and I was at a good breaking point in my book (Song of Ice and Fire Book 5: A Dance With Dragons—def. the worst so far :() [that’s a sad face followed by a parentheses close not a gaping mouth]. Met John Elliot who, now that I think about it, may actually be an Elliott not an Elliot but I always get them confused because of my cousin Elliott who I could never decide was a one or a two t. Either way, John’s a good dude and we exchanged the customarily awkward pleasantries of two people who have only met over Skype and I went up to my room to settle in. Big room—a double—private bathroom/shower, lots of closet and drawer space and ONLY ONE GOD DAMN LIGHT FOR THE ENTIRE GOD DAMN ROOM. I’m writing in the dark right now because the room is only ever 1/3 lit at best. It’s the biggest design flaw I’ve ever seen in my life. Worse than the Tesco microwaveable dinners’ plastic covering (for y’all Edinburghers).

Whateva, settled in, went down for the introduction, ample discomfort in contrived small talk. When you’re in a room of 60 people and know 0 of them, the situation becomes so incredibly urgent that you are viscerally forced to either hate someone or love them within 15 seconds. It was such a bizarre barrage of like complete sycophantic inferiority and obsessive megalomania I can’t believe I didn’t wind up in the corner sheepishly sucking my thumb and screaming “SHUT THE FUCK UP!” at everyone who dared to approach me. For about two minutes I had the three best friends in the entire world and twelve mortal enemies who I wished I could fry and eat. You’ll be happy to know I haven’t talked to any of them since and now feel an appropriately human, non-homicidal friendliness with a dozen or so people.

That was sort of weirdly facilitated by John who decided to call me out to introduce somebody I met in my mandatory mingling. I suppressed the spastic urge to scream, “I’M THE GREATEST OF YOU ALL, LEAVE ME TO MY WISDOM!” and instead politely introduced another guy named Nick who played instruments and enjoyed attending the Austin City Limits music festival. When John asked me to introduce myself, I succeeded in stereotyping the shit out of myself. “My name’s Nick, I’m from outside Boston, my favorite soup is Clam Chowder, I’m a Red Sox fan.” That’s literally all I could think of to say. John was nice to completely lie to everybody and say he loved my application and I have a very funny blog. I can’t imagine he was talking about this thing. In fact, if he was, I totally see why I didn’t get an internship. But in the here and now it’s kinda cool because everybody thinks I’m this outrageous blogger and I’m respectable or something. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to say, “No, I really don’t know what John’s talking about, I have a blog about drinking in Europe, and the only reason I keep it is as a last resort for when I contract Alzheimer’s.” Those people usually walk away unimpressed and feeling cheated. I like the people that don’t ask me about it.

Speaking of people who don’t ask me about it, I met a couple of lecturers yesterday. Mollie Hemingway, a Wall Street Journal contributor, and Ben Berger, a Political Science professor at Swarthmore. AAAAAnd actually I’m going to continue this tomorrow. Consider this Part 1 rather than Day 1. I’m starting to get loopy and want to give Mollie and Ben their fair shake of ink. And by ink I mean type. Both had some interesting things to say so check back in on my distorted recollection of it.

It was like any other morning after a binge at first. My phone vibrated next to my face when it was supposed to, and I hit snooze like I usually did. I heard my friend and co-worker, Curtis, go into the bathroom across the hall and start retching with the door open as he usually did. Every one of his heaves ground on my temples and stirred the booze stew in my stomach as I buried my face into the pillow and swallowed back nausea. When the snooze went off Curtis had left the bathroom and I felt more sick than sleepy. It got worse when I sat up and remembered where I was.

I was on a floor, on top of a comforter probably stolen from a bed in the house, with a beer-stained couch cushion for my head. “Better than puke,” I thought to myself. The room was a perfect cube—a bedroom I became well acquainted with in my first foray into love. It was the last floor I wanted to wake up on. I staggered to my feet with the help of the swivel chair by her desk. I used to spin circles in that chair and wait for her to take out the trash or vacuum the stairs or some other menial chore that she was too proud or hospitable to let me help with. In the far corner her prom dress dangled a sheepish frill from the closet like it remembered me. The bed-side table, with its retainer case and alternating pile of literary classics and books for dummies looked untouched since the night I last slept in the bed. It was eerie, really. It had been almost a year. But here I was, asleep on her floor, absent of memory, while she snoozed with the asshole she cheated on me with in the bed I lost my virginity in. The thought of sex perturbed me. It was her birthday, they obviously did it, but did they know I was there? Did I know I was there? At that moment, my flippant replacement was all I cared about. I had no idea that I wouldn’t think of her again for nearly twenty years after that day.

Deflated, I picked my phone and wallet off the ground and staggered to the hall and down the stairs making the same vow I often do after a blackout to never drink again.

The staircase dumped into the kitchen. I grabbed a glass from a cupboard, realizing that I could cook Thanksgiving dinner in that kitchen, let alone help myself to some water. Hesitating for a moment, I thought if I put the glass away and left I’d sooner forget everything; the cutlery and dishes, the house, the girl, the lies. But I needed water. “Fuck her,” I said aloud as I went to the tap. As I lowered the glass, the sunrise peeked through the window above the sink, glaring off the glass and blinding me for an instant. That light is still shockingly vivid, even twenty years later, because for about twenty minutes I thought it was divine absolution. It was a cleansing light. I squinted and in a fraction of a second my life was rearranged. Ridding me of the sour love I had long struggled to dispose of, that glare shuffled my priorities and dealt out dozens of things I cared about far more than a broken heart. Family, coffee, civil rights. A year I had hated myself and her, forgetting all I had before me. Love is nothing to a glass of cold water. I smiled as if acquitted of some heinous crime. “Yeah, fuck her,” I said again. For the first time in my life—and for the briefest time in my life—I thought myself a man.

A man late for work.

The 5:56 on the stove clock slapped me out of catharsis. I was working at the marina with Curtis that summer, driving rich folks out to their weekend releases from their mansions and hedge funds. Work started early, and ended late, but the rich tip well and I got to be outside all day, so I could overlook the hours. “Curtis!” I yelled, forgetting that people were still asleep all over the house. No answer. I yelled again, a fraction quieter, and a voice in the next room grumbled back, “He left, shut the fuck up.” It was typical of Curtis to leave for work without me. Vomit would never make him late. I downed one more glass of water and hustled towards the front of the house, determined to make it to work on time. Running through the dining room I laughed at the mess—red cups everywhere, soaked newspaper sticking to the damp mahogany table, a mangled chandelier shoved into the electric fireplace, not a single straight frame, draught from a broken window—and choked on the musty rank of booze.

The living room was cleaner at least, but smelled far worse. I had to hold my nose as I stopped to gawk at the scene before me. Half a dozen couples were sleeping in the living room, all in their underwear. I wish I remembered to ask about that before I left town. At the time I made an educated guess from the stench of latex and mingling body odors before being drawn by the muted morning news mounted on the wall. A high speed chase on Route 3, the main road into Boston. Strange for any time on Route 3, but especially 6 AM on a Saturday. I felt bad for the pursuing officers who probably hadn’t had their breakfast donut yet. I didn’t think it had anything to do with me, but then nobody ever does until it does.

I fumbled around in the front room for my shoes and jacket for longer than desirable. I stopped and considered the jacket before I put it on. A red, blue, and yellow striped windbreaker, ideal for brisk mornings at the marina. It was a recent gift from a girl who never quite became a girlfriend, and was by far the best-looking piece of attire I owned. I could never commit to her because I couldn’t get over the previous one, but looking at the jacket I became briefly lost in possibility. Absence, absolution, and awesome gifts make the heart grow fonder, I suppose.

I threw the jacket on and went out, mindlessly grabbing a lighter on the bench by the front door. I don’t know why I picked it up, but I’ve never ignored a stray lighter since. I started the straight trek down to the ocean, leaving that girl’s house for the very last time, wholly set on the future for the first time in months. It was empowering, like the moment in the kitchen, so I gave myself a break for all the delays. One can’t expect to be on time when he’s recreating himself in his ex-girlfriend’s kitchen.

It was a wet, breezy morning on the street by the Atlantic, the moist rank of mud and dead shellfish in the dawn low tide sailing upon the grey salt air. The trees cast walls of shadow on either side of the street, guiding me through a corridor of light to the harbor. Birds chirped salutations, a rabbit stopped in the middle of the light to wriggle his nose hello before bounding away, and the gulls by the water looked happier than usual. The early-risers flew over the muddy, exposed seabed at the bottom of the hill, occasionally diving for a clam or mussel, jabbering excitedly about the sunrise buffet. Everything was in a good mood. I felt bigger. Happy. My head was clear, my body was loose, and I tasted life in every breath. I picked up the pace to a jog, the fastest I had moved in longer than I’d care to admit. Before breaking a sweat I was by Curtis’ Prius in the narrow marina parking lot along the ocean, dividing the sea wall from a grassy park where children played kickball in the summer and had snowball fights in the winter and was continuously threatened by marina expansion.

I started towards the gangplank but stopped to examine a red channel marker that had been taken out the day before to replace its frayed anchor. It was lying on its side by the dock gateway, the new rope and anchor wrapped tightly around its narrow midsection, ready to return to work. On most days I could have rolled it down myself but with the tide so low the gangplank was at a 60 degree angle and I had no chance of controlling its descent. I called for Curtis to help. No answer. Assuming he fell asleep while waiting for me, I jogged down the gangplank, marveling at my newfound energy. “Curtis, get up,” I said to nobody as I ducked in to the sheet iron shack at the base of the gangplank. The foldable camping chair he chilled in when not busy was empty. Nothing seemed missing, not even any of the amalgamation of rope across the entire left side of the shack. The only difference from the day before was a pair of lobster pods teeming with angry, confused crustaceans snapping hopelessly at the steel wire ensnaring them. My mouth watered a little and I frowned; I’d have to wait six hours to eat, and lobster probably wasn’t on the menu. I wouldn’t smile again that summer.

With my stomach growling its frustration I went back out to the docks to search for Curtis.  Walking along the linked docks I shielded my eyes from the morning’s glint off the white decks of small yachts and fishing boats bobbing above the mud. The marina’s launch boat was moored at the tip of the fifth and last dock, but I didn’t have to step into it to see that Curtis wasn’t there. I looked up to the parking lot to confirm that I hadn’t imagined his car. Where was he? I called his name again in vain and gazed stupidly out to the creeping tide not knowing what else to do. My stomach rumbled again and I decided hopefully that he’d walked to Dunkin’ Donuts to get breakfast for both of us. I’d wait for him by the channel marker by the parking lot.

Walking towards the ocean I had been distracted by sun, walking back I was distracted by optimism. Both times I missed Curtis. When I had gotten to the shack, he found me, but it wasn’t him who spoke.

“Don’t. Fucking. Move,” a comically wheezy voice behind me said, punctuating each word in an exhausted finality as if it was the most dramatic and strenuous thing it ever said. I gave a half-chuckle as I disobeyed, turning around in mock fear. “Please don’t sh… it.”

Curtis was dangling a foot of the ground, his head clasped between two hands the size of golf cart tires. His face was taut against his skull, a look of terror in his static eyes. I thought he was dead until he began blinking feverishly, in a truncated rhythm, as if trying to communicate with his lashes. His face was drenched in sweat, apparently the only struggle he had left in him. It proved surprisingly effective as he began to slip through his captor’s grip. The giant arms set him down awkwardly, and I saw him for the first time. My villain. The giant who would take everything I loved most in the world and twist it 180 degrees like a toddler’s neck. His face was narrow and haggard—cheek and jawbones as well-defined as his bushy brown eyebrows—and spotted with small, red pockmarks that stood out against his crooked, yellow and black smile. His head was longer than a phonebook’s binding, or at least the high crew cut and lack of sideburns made it seem that way; his forehead was a sixhead. His shoulders were small Christmas hams, pulling his wifebeater up past his bellybutton in a curiously effeminate look. His pants looked like burlap sacks, the kind you’d expect medieval peasants to wear, ending about an inch above his grotesquely hairy ankles where feet that no standard mall Foot Locker could accommodate squeezed into flimsy plastic black flip-flops two sizes too small. I thought he looked like he’d had a much rougher night than I did. And then that deep wheezing growl brought me back to seriousness.

“Don’t worry, I’ve been clogged up like a Mexican toilet for the past three days. I won’t shit on your dock!” He threw back his head to belt out three raspy HAH’s like he’d never said anything so funny in his life. And then he bent over into a coughing fit, hacking out all of the phlegm, blood and lung that came up with the joke. I immediately beckoned to Curtis to run, but he remained stiff as the dock he stood on, shaking his head vigorously and pointing subtly by his hips towards the man. For a moment I didn’t get it and, I’m ashamed to admit, considered bolting alone, but when the giant fell to his knees I saw it. The smooth, steel grip poking out of the back of his canvas pants. I recognized the grooved butt of the slide and the near complete absence of a hammer, characteristics of a Smith & Wesson M&P .40 caliber. The gun my dad taught me to shoot when I turned fourteen. The gun that all police in a 250-mile radius carried and taught their sons to shoot. I wanted my dad. I didn’t feel so manly anymore.

The coughing stopped and he stood up gingerly, clearly confident that neither of us was going anywhere. He didn’t even bother to grab Curtis again when he dictated terms, pulling the gun out casually while he cleared his throat to speak, almost cordially. “So here’s the deal. I’ve probably scared you both shitless for a few weeks. It’s good for you, makes you tougher, you won’t never meet anyone half so mean as me. Since I did you that—and I’m not one to give without getting—you’re gonna take me to Quincy.” He never took his eyes off me, evidently taking my lack of surprise at the gun as a sign of being more put together than Curtis.

“Why?” I asked boyishly before thinking that questioning a man with a gun and a hostage probably wasn’t a good idea. It was a new experience for me, I was still learning.

“Because if you don’t I’m going to put a bullet in both your skulls, rob you, keep your IDs so I’ll never forget where your family lives, steal a boat anyway and bring both your corpses with me so if anyone catches up I can pretend to have hostages. And maybe have a little fun with them too.” He added the last bit with a prurient smile, showing his jagged teeth.

“Well those are good reasons,” I answered, more disgusted than frightened, and was about to ask Curtis for the launch keys when I realized that Curtis had the launch keys. If this guy hadn’t gone already, Curtis had held out somehow. I didn’t want to know what he did with them, but his resistance was inspiring. Maybe I wasn’t brave, but neither was I stupid. If Curtis—who thought plate tectonics was a brand of utensils—was hanging with this guy, I could beat him. “Except I don’t have the keys.”

“That’s what he says, too. So who’s lying?”

“Neither of us, our boss has them, he closed up yesterday and he always brings the keys home with him if he’s the last one here.” The lie came so fast and urgently, I almost believed it. I recalled childhood, when I feigned tears to get the older kids in trouble. Lying was just as much in my nature as everyone else’s.

But the gunman scowled at Curtis; evidently our stories hadn’t matched up. He glanced between us a few times, his ragged face contorted in thought. When he came to a conclusion, he was staring at the deck between our feet. “It’s you,” he said, nudging Curtis with the butt of the gun. Curtis shivered, and spoke in a pitch higher than any man, “I swear to God I’m not lying, when I heard you I dropped them in the water. I was terrified.”

I couldn’t tell if that was the truth. If it was, I had given Curtis entirely too much credit, and pitted us against each other. If it wasn’t, he really was a fantastic liar. Either way, it was safer to reconcile and let him lead. “I don’t know if that’s true or not, but I lied before, our boss doesn’t have them, Curtis was supposed to. I assumed if he hadn’t already given them to you then he was trying to trick you so I went along with it.” I never had to adapt lies as a toddler.

The gunman smiled, unreasonably pleased with himself. “I knew you were the liar, I called him out because I expected you to ‘fess up. Fucking snitch. Snitches get stitches.” He brought the gun down like a hatchet over Curtis’ head, making a crack that I still have nightmares about. “For their friends,” he added sadistically after Curtis crumpled unconscious to the deck.

I wasn’t so clever anymore. My voice cracked as I screamed at him. “Holy shit, why did you do that! I lied! Me! He was cooperating with you!”

“And now you’re going to cooperate with me. Get in.” He pointed towards the end of the dock. I didn’t know what he meant at first.

“In?” I asked.

“You’re going to get those keys for me,” he clarified as he trained the gun on my face.

“I…” I looked at Curtis unconscious on the ground, blood matted in his thick, curly hair. I realized I never had an end game. All I could do was slow him down until a customer showed up, but that would be at least an hour; I couldn’t last that long, especially with Curtis bleeding out. Confidence and brains only go so far, in the end, brute force is much more efficient. Even in the low tide shallows those keys would be hard to find in the brown ocean haze, but I didn’t have a choice anymore. Even if they weren’t actually there, I had lost. “Okay, let me just put my stuff down.”

“Put it down here.”

“I’m going to put it in the shack. No offense, but I don’t trust you as far as I can throw you. Which is not at all. I’m helping you this much, I’m not going to fund your escape, too.” Really, I only wanted a few seconds to hide the welling tears, but they evaporated into shock as soon as they came. Without realizing it, I had hit a very sore spot.

“I’m not escaping from anything!” He roared, waving the gun insanely in my face. He came within inches of my face and I could smell the rot and tooth decay on his breath. “I am free to do whatever they hell I want, and I want to go for a fucking boat ride! Now get those fucking keys!” That outburst told me I was right. The high speed chase flashed across my memory, but I doubted he could lose the police so quickly and in such a densely populated area. Still, it was fascinating if not prudent, I had to find out.

“Where did you put the car,” I asked softly, hoping he wouldn’t hit me for my insolence.

He started to scream again, “I said…,” he hesitated, “how did you… get the fucking keys, before I knock you out, too!” The giant was visibly rattled. I knew more than he imagined, and perhaps much more. As I went to lock my things in the shack it dawned on me that I had actually just become collateral damage. I’d seen his face, I knew that the police were looking for him, I could put him back where he came from; it was my greatest advantage, and my greatest peril. If he had it in him, he had to kill me. That proverb about curious cats sang in my head while I flicked the lighter nervously.

And then the flame sparked an idea. We had gas in no short supply, and I had a spark to ignite it. I had a weapon if I could only find a way to use it. I looked frantically around the shed, careful to be quiet. The idiot was still fifty feet down the dock, completely oblivious to what I was doing in the shack. He was a trusting criminal. “Let’s go!” He screamed, a worrisome note of panic in his voice. He was losing patience, I knew he would probably come to hurry me any second. I looked at the lobsters, and wondered if I’d ever eat one again. I wished I could pick one up and crack it open right there; they’re easy to carry despite their notorious fierceness. As long as you hold the right side… 

I reached into a trap, possessed by hope, and grabbed the first one I felt. Footsteps came towards the shack. “Kid, I’m not patient at the best of times,” the giant growled, his pace quickening. I dumped gasoline on the lobster, making it shriek and pinch at the horrific pain searing its eyes. I still feel terrible for that. Almost as bad as I do for making it a torch.

When I stepped out of the shack, I was surprised how close he was. He saw the flaming crustacean and a bizarrely satisfying sequence of shock, fury, and fear crossed his face in an instant. The gun came up to execute me just as the molotov lobster left my hand. Instinctually I hit the deck, hyperventilating and checking myself for holes. A second shot went off and the deck shuddered with the weight of a falling giant. I blacked out.

Waking up, I heard the gulls laughing along the seawall, the soft lull of the waves caressing its base and the sustained drizzle of urine. I sat up and saw Curtis wobbling on his feet, flicking the bird as he drowned the fire on the gunman’s melted, exploded face. Without looking at me he said flatly, “I put the keys by the channel marker to remind us to take it out. Good thing you’re lazy.” Same old Curtis.

I rose a confused, lonely boy. “I’m going home,” I told him. I still haven’t made it. I don’t know where it is.

Since I’m too lazy to write a post, here’s the email I sent to my Grandparents updating them on my life. If it’s good enough for them, it’s good enough for you.

Hi Grandma and Grandpa,

Well I’ve been spending way too much time with girls. This really isn’t relevant, but I’ve been at Starbucks writing an essay with some female friends and haven’t done much but heard about the 2 hot guys in the place, “poop” brown eyes, lists of boys they think are cute, SUSHI, and Anna Faris movies; I’ve come to realize that I’m not actually here. At least I’ve got a pretty sick view of the castle.

But I digress, I’m sure you’ve been anxiously awaiting another post, and there’s kind of a lot to tell. I’m going to try to stick to the exciting stuff, so hopefully your ADD won’t kick in too hard.

Three weeks ago we had a break and basically all of the international students went traveling. I started in Maastricht, visiting Kevin from Oberlin at the University of for Carnaval. What a bonanzas little festival. The entire city (except bars, of course) was shut down and decked out in green, red, and yellow banners and flags and people in all sorts of fun costumes and colors. Families and friends wore theme costumes, i.e. GIs, pigs, pirates, purple, white, red, black, white, yellow-outs. It’s hard to go into 3 weeks later, it was just bizarrely colorful. I hadn’t really done enough research and I showed up with a panda mask and flimsy gloves and a tanktop, and called myself a panda. Masks aren’t really a thing at Maastricht Carnaval—that’s more of a Venice thing apparently. Three nights of dancing, drinking, making friends and yelling “aufsiblieft” (sp.) at people were pretty much a straight highlight but one moment sticks out above the rest: in the first like 5 minutes of my Carnaval experience a Dutch schoolgirl came up to me and explained that pandas only have sex once in their lifetimes. We had a long argument about it and she ended up buying me a drink before I sort of ruined everything by explaining I was a “special” panda. And then we left and I didn’t see her again. Big regret there.

From Maastricht, I went to Paris and saw Sharon briefly. We spent a really great day with Kevin and his friends and two of my friends from Edinburgh eating baguettes and drinking wine in front of Notre Dame and then repeating the process by a fountain at the Llouvre gardens. It was incredible weather the entire time and made it easier to forget how expensive everything was. Unfortunately, my phone was out of credit so I spent the next couple of days basically alone. No biggie, though, I just saw things at my own discretion; 5 hours in the Llouvre still wasn’t enough to see any Michaelangelo which was too bad, but what can ya do.

Then came London where I stayed with Henry and two guys from Oberlin I hadn’t met before. Actually, I ended up meeting a bunch of Oberlin people in London I had never met before. Extended many an invitation to Edinburgh. Henry and I got lost one night trying to find the National Theatre, which was so stupid because Jenny lived right around the corner from it. I knew exactly where it was but I just followed Henry thinking he knew what he was doing. We were half an hour late for David Lynch’s Inland Empire and nearly got hit by a car on the way. Like, felt the breeze from it and heard the yell. The next day I got lunch with Hannah and spent two incredibly fast hours catching up and chatting about the future and Europe experiences and such. It was great to see her, and I was very proud to hear she completed her Gherkin climb.

I was relieved to get back to Edinburgh, and have had a relatively quiet couple of weeks. Homework is starting to pick up, though, since every class has basically one assignment due at the end of the semester. And the end of the semester is April 6. How crazy is that?

Running out of batteries, but hope this is an okay—if sloppily compiled—update. Headed to Dublin for St. Patty’s Day! I’ll put pictures up from it when I get back.

Love y’all