Let’s start of with this: I work hard. At least I try to; I read emails all the way to the end and use numbered lists. I try to make things easy. I try to do what I’m asked. I keep a to-do list. Crossing off all those tasks – how satisfying. Need a meeting booked? Want to get 17 people in a room together? Come to me. I’ll make it painless.

I plan out my days carefully. I have goals, milestones, timelines. I live my life organized. Want to see my five year plan? I’m moments away from writing a Vision Statement or making a dream board. My childhood self (arrogant, moody, and often filthy) would be amazed. I bought a dust-buster yesterday. I’m still excited.

I’m finishing my undergrad, cleaning up the messes of a younger, less responsible self. One of my classmates said it best: “I keep forgetting you’re a grownup!” Am I really? News to me.  Although I can’t for the life of me remember to call any of them “classmates”. I keep saying “colleagues”, or worse, “co-students”. Is this what growing up feels like? Inventing terminology that nobody needs or asked for?

So here’s my problem, fellow grown-ups and co-students: what the hell do I do now?

I have oodles of self-esteem. I’ve got it in spades, maybe more than I should. My generation invented “everybody gets a trophy” culture. We tore down all the dangerous play-structures and replaced them with humourless plastic monstrosities. I got plenty of praise for frankly mediocre performance but slipped through right before cyberbullying became a big problem.

I like me.

My problem is not a lack of desire or capacity or confidence. My problem is that I have no idea what I want.

Well, that’s not strictly true, but all the tools that I have to get what I want seem patently useless in the face of my desires. What I want is a life full of happiness and satisfaction and free time and creativity and love. What I have is a Google Calendar and a tendency to double-book myself and probably a bit of carpal tunnel.

I want to enjoy going into work every day. And I do. But could I enjoy it more? Am I succeeding at this particular amorphous goal? How do I measure it? Where does it live, so that I can observe it in its natural habitat? Will I enjoy this in three years? Five? Ten? And if I don’t, how do I get back to enjoyment?

I want a life full of love, but how the hell do you get that? By being nice to people? But people are jerks! Lots of people will take advantage of you! How do you balance kindness with self-care? When am I being justifiably selfish and when am I just being a jerk? Is there a Geiger counter for toxic people? WHERE DOES THIS GO ON MY VISION BOARD?

It’s like trying to find the Northwest Passage with a map of Disney Land.

When I am overwhelmed with the big question – What the Hell am I Doing? – I retreat to the safety of concrete metrics. I am can bike x kilometers. I saved x dollars this month. I got x grade in the course. I line up all these neat little facts as if they will protect me from the bigger questions, but they are umbrellas in a hurricane. When you ask how to measure love, the number of pennies in a jar is irrelevant. And that’s what so many of these lists are for: counting pennies in a jar.

I believe that the world is my oyster. But what the hell do you do with an oyster?

So, in case anyone is curious, it’s been just over five months since I got dumped.

Isn’t “got dumped” the perfect expression for it? Because that’s exactly what it feels like: you and your partner are driving down the road and suddenly he pops the passenger door open and throws you out. If you’re lucky, you grabbed your purse on the way out. If you’re lucky, you remembered to tuck and roll.

When I think about getting dumped, I am still very much in shock. It doesn’t sting anymore: I am no longer carrying around a bag of railroad spikes just under my sternum. It doesn’t hurt to breathe. But I am still surprised by it, even after all these weeks. I wasn’t expecting it, you see. If someone planned a surprise birthday for me with all the stealth of my breakup, it would be a great party. I never saw it coming.

At least it’s no longer news. The best part about time passing that by now no one really cares very much about my break up. The questions have been asked, if they’re going to be, and now it’s just too awkward to start digging. Besides, nothing really interesting happened. Breakups are as common as the cold, and mine was not very special. It was bad, but not original.

I don’t really want to talk about it anymore, the Great Dumping of 2014. Don’t let me fool you: it’s not because I am a kind, generous person and I have forgiven and forgotten and moved on. That’s a nice fantasy, but it’s not real. I haven’t forgiven. I occasionally forget. But mostly I’d like my ex to die alone and unloved in a garbage can. Preferably soon.

I am not generous. I am occasionally kind, but not in this case. I have a lot of resentment. I have a lot of fear. I find myself bedfellows with new, strange feelings: regret, sadness, rage, spite, anxiety. Suddenly my heart, which has always been as reliable and steady as the postal service, threatens to revolt. I have to take it into consideration now. I have to think about my feelings.

I don’t want to say that it’s a colossal waste of time, but it certainly doesn’t seem to have helped much.

Now, of course, five-plus months have passed. I have someone new, which is comforting and wonderful, but which doesn’t change the fact that I was recently thrown head-first out of a speeding vehicle. I’m still limping.

I never used to be a sentimentalist. I used to march blindly through life, trampling whatever useless things tried to crawl up through the undergrowth. Feelings were rarely spared. I’ve never been malicious. Just dumb, and inconsiderate. I’ve tried to get better, recently, although god knows how much I’ve succeeded in handling the hearts of others with any sort of gentleness. My own heart, though, has suddenly needed handling of it’s own.

That’s the kicker.

Now, I find myself retracing the memories of all my exes, not just the most recent, and feeling these heavy tugs of memory and regret. I keep looking at pictures of Us, whichever Us I happened to belong to at the time, and the weight of all those old loves threatens to smother me. I am not angry at most of them. Just sad. That’s what seems to happen, after five months turns into five years: all the anger and the spite burns away, and what you have left is this pure blue flame of sadness. They run through my memories like landing lights. You could land a plane in a thunderstorm by the cold blue light of every person I ever thought I loved.

Heavy stuff.

Of course, I do not spend my days being sad or thinking constantly about the nature of sadness. For one thing, it’s boring. Sadness can never be news. It can’t create, it can’t inspire. Living your life in the shadow of your sadness is living your life as a re-run.

So instead, I create lists, plans, to-dos. I work, I play, I run, I make impulsive decisions. I cut my hair, I lost some weight, I got a cat. I embraced the stereotypes. I make a point of forgetting all the memories that I’ll never get to make with the person who decided, abruptly, that our road trip was over. These things help, but I can’t take much credit for it. I do not have an obsessive mind – I don’t have the attention span for it. I’ll never paint beautiful art or write an opus, but at least I can get up every day. Forward is the only direction I’ve ever been any good at.

It’s comforting to think that time will keep passing: that other things will get in my way, that I’ll have new obstacles to trample. I am still too loud. I still swear too much. I am still more obnoxious than confident, although it’s easy to get them confused. I am still, innately, the person I was last November, despite the bumps and bruises. There is still so much further to go, and I still have only the vaguest idea what the path will look like.

So, let’s talk about something else. How’ve you been?

So, let’s play a little game of make-believe. Let’s pretend it’s Friday the 13th, the day before Valentines’ Day and the anniversary of the firebombing of Dresden. You are single, and it is okay. It’s somewhere between -38 and absolute zero outside because this is Canada and the weather actively wants you dead. Winter has a vendetta, and it’s February 13th, so why not? You are wearing ski socks under your dress pants. You feel noticeably unsexy, totally Canadian.

Imagine you need to go to Vanier, which sounds like a terrible idea in retrospect. You have a meeting there, and you are 30 minutes early, so you go to Subway to have a cup of coffee and a cookie. You haven’t had a cup of Subway coffee in literally six years and it still tastes like the inside of a shoe, and it is boiling hot despite the cream you added. This meeting is important, so you want to look nice, but your hair is stupid because winter is really just a four-month long bad hair day. You may or may not be wearing several hats.

Your meeting goes well. You feel like you’ve made some friends. The sun is incredibly bright in the cozy, welcoming office. You are suffused with optimism, and you are not thinking about loneliness or stupid commercial holidays and how goddamn stupid they fucking are. You feel confident. The future is bright.

At the bus stop, the bus is late. A Dude approaches. He is good-looking enough to make you uncomfortable and definitely, definitely your type. He is underdressed for the weather and overdressed for anything you’ve ever done. He has a jaw that could sell cologne and his hair is very, very good, but you can’t help but think he’s a bit stupid for not wearing a hat.

He starts talking to you. His opening line is, “so, are you going to class?” You answer, barely. All the instincts you’ve honed over the years are tuned to the “Is This Guy Going to Kill Me and Turn My Skin Into Lamps” frequency. He seems normal. Turns out he’s a nursing student; turns out you have a soft spot for male nurses. Some people like bad boys in leather jackets who drive motorcycles; you like guys with empathy and the ability to insert a catheter. Suddenly, you’re enjoying the conversation.

Talk turns to the usual subjects: class, roommates, orthopedics, breast feeding. You are knowledgeable on these subjects and have lots to talk about. He mentions that his roommate might have “mild dwarfism”. You talk about a roommate you used to have who left animal skulls on the coffee table. You make a few jokes that he either doesn’t get or doesn’t find funny. You smile. He doesn’t: in fact, he looks to be more and more disinterested. Whatever is happening, he isn’t into it. You can’t tell if he’s stupid or bored. The bus comes, finally, and you get on at different doors. You sit, take off your hats, pull down your scarf, smile in a friendly way. He makes no attempt to join you and gets off at a different stop then he said he would.

You check your reflection in a compact mirror. Your hair is enormous, and your bangs are doing something that can only be described as “anime side mullet”.

If you were the kind of person who had more ego than sense, you would assume that this poor handsome gentleman was just so intimidated by your beauty and wit that he got scared away. If you were the kind of person into delusions of grandeur, you’d decide that you were never that interested in him. You’d roll your eyes at his fantasy baseball league. You’d decide that very good-looking men are always a little bit stupid.

Alternatively, if you were the kind of person prone to self-hate, you’d see this as just one more moment of failure in a vast ocean of your own unworthiness. You’d reflect that everything was fine until you opened your big stupid mouth. Part of you would think: if only I wasn’t such a weirdo, that guy would’ve totally liked me.

Instead, part of you thinks: I’ve been a giant weirdo forever, why would I give up on a good thing for a stranger at a bus stop?

You tell your friends about it; they are jerks, but that’s what you need. You make evenings plans with someone who finds you funny and either legitimately enjoys your company or has been pretending so long that he’s developed Stockholm syndrome. You go to work, get a few things done. You are not sad, actually. You are aware that life is full of chance meetings, that most people will not love you, that many will not even like you, and you are fine with that.

Your chronic bad hair day doesn’t let up until early April. Somehow, life goes on.

Hi!

You can always tell when I’m single because inevitably I crawl back to this blog with profuse apologies, a flurry of posts and then, a few months later, a return to radio silence.

So let’s do this!

This post is about all the things I am inexplicably good at and all the things I am equally inexplicably bad at. Well, probably not all the things – I doubt the list is exhaustive. But hey, I’m trying.

Pasta

I probably have too many feelings about food, generally, but pasta and I – we have history. I eat a lot of pasta, and every single time I make pasta two things inevitably happen: first, I make far, far too much. Oh hey, making pasta for just me? Better make half a bag, because leftovers. Making pasta for five people? Better make all the pasta in the fucking house because measuring is hard.

The second thing that happens every time I make pasta is that I will know, within a 20-second window, exactly when the pasta is ready. I’ve got some weird pasta-organ somewhere near my brainstem and it can sense when the pasta is al dente, somehow. It’s the most useless, albeit delicious, of my many superpowers.

Space and Time

Related to my sixth (pasta) sense is my ability to almost always know what time it is. If I’m sober, I can generally tell you what time it is within a five-minute range. Unfortunately, if I’ve been drinking this power goes out the window and I will either be four hours early or four hours late no matter what.

While it’s great to know when I am, please never ever ask me where I am. I don’t know. I don’t know how to get anywhere, including places I’ve been to dozens of times. I once got lost directing someone driving me home, where I had lived for 11 years. It’s not something I’m doing to be a cute ditzy girl or anything, it’s actually really debilitating. Normal humans can navigate familiar surroundings or get themselves to bars they’ve been to over and over again without relying on a GPS. I am not those people.

People, generally.

I am very good at pretending to be confident, friendly and outgoing in very specific situations. If I have to run an event at work, I put on my Big Girl Suit Jacket and a grab a clipboard and it all works perfectly. You would never suspect that I have no idea what I’m doing; in fact I’m so good that I have myself half-convinced by the end of the day. Look at me go, being professional! I think. I bet this is what Obama feels like.

Unfortunately, this confidence and self-esteem is context-specific. I’ve already talked about how I can’t handle being flirted with, but polite small-talk is also mostly beyond me. When nice old people try to engage me in conversation on the bus (or…anywhere) my solution is to stare at them like I don’t know how to make words with my mouth. The same goes for the spouses of coworkers and friends of my parents. I am sure you are all very nice, but this is going to end in tears.

At a Christmas party a few years back I ran into the husband of a co-worker whom I’d definitely met before but did not recognize at all. First, I tried to subtly ask if this was the same husband as last time (spoiler alert: there is no subtle way to ask that) and then I tried to explain my confusion by admitting that I remembered this persons’ husband as being significantly less attractive. “You’re aren’t as ugly as I remembered!” is just not the compliment you think it would be.

I used to also be really good at going to parties where I didn’t know anyone and being really friendly and interesting and outgoing, but that doesn’t work as well anymore. I’m not sure if it’s because I’ve gotten older and no longer seek the brief flash of self-worth that comes from making randos like me for two hours or if I’m just getting boring, but parties full of strangers just don’t get me excited like they used to. Sorry, total strangers, you’ll have to play beer pong without me.

Casual sex

Not the sex part! I am probably okay at the sex part – so far only two people have gotten nosebleeds while doing the dirty with me, and I have definitely had sex with at least three people. The sex part is fine – it’s the casual part that kills me. I am pretty bad at not getting attached to people I see naked regularly, especially Mysterious Badboy Strangers. Ugh, you guys are the worst. But I have to take some responsibility for this, because I know this is something I’m not very good at but I keep doing it anyway.

Everything you’ve ever said

Remember that conversation we had six years ago at a Hallowe’en party about your sick cat? No? Well I do! Most people find it slightly disconcerting that I remember not only general conversations but direct verbatim quotes from years back. Sorry guys, but some of us listen. Some of us care about what other people have to say. Some of us are practically fucking saints, okay?

Don’t ask me what your name is though. I know you’ve told me three times, and I asked our mutual friend twice while you were talking to someone else, but I’m going to keep calling you Karen for not only the rest of the evening but probably the rest of our lives. I’ll never forget that time someone was rude to you when you worked at Tim Hortons in tenth grade, but your legal name will remain forever a mystery.

I’ll also recognize your face forever, even if we never have a reason to talk to each other again, and I will stare at you really intently on the bus for minutes on end until I figure out who the hell you are.

And then I will smile, and wave gently, and you will hear my voice whisper “Hey Karen, how is your cat doing?” I’ll be just far enough away that you will have no way of answering me without shouting, but definitely close enough that it will be awkward if you don’t answer.

You’re welcome.

So I’m going to let you in on a little secret: I like to argue. Like, a lot. I love arguing; nothing is quite as much fun as a rousing debate with an intelligent opponent. Let’s talk about the nature of reality until the sun comes up. Sounds delicious.

 

As a person who likes to argue (but is also dumb) I have occasionally succumbed to the self-destructive habit of arguing on the internet. This is pretty stupid, for the most part, because nobody can express themselves particularly well and everybody ends up angry. I avoid this as much as possible, but on the rare times that I’ve let myself run wild, I have encountered my most hated of all arguing fallacies: the “opinion” dismissal.

 

The Opinion Dismissal goes like this: I am having an argument with someone on the internet (or anywhere), and after a few rounds of point-counterpoint, my esteemed opponent whips out the always-enraging debate-ender: “Well, that’s just your opinion.”

 

And then my head explodes.

 

I hate this tactic, and I am going to explain to you, in devastatingly specific detail, *why* this particular phrase turns me from rational, language-loving primate to screaming, poo-flinging primate in a matter of seconds.

 

1.  Of course it is my opinion. If it wasn’t, I wouldn’t be arguing this.

2.  The fact that it is my opinion does not immediately place it on even level to your opinion, because – shocker of shockers – opinions can be wrong.

 

Calling something “my opinion” as a dismissal is insulting. Despite what so many people seem to believe, my opinion can be better argued, more valuable and, dare I say it, more right (righter?) than yours. Alternatively, your opinion may certainly be superior to mine in every way, but you’ve got to make a case for it.

 

We live in a culture that has embraced subjectivity and multiplicity and I love these things, for the most part. When it comes to personal choices, desires and preferences, I would never be so insulting as to tell you what you like. But while personal preferences cannot be proven or disproven, the relative value of a thing – an object, an idea, a philosophy – absolutely can be argued, and objective arguments can be made. Basically, just because some things are subjective doesn’t mean everything is.

 

If you like cats more than dogs, then there is no objective argument to be had: the reality of you liking cats better exists in its own happy little bubble. Even if I think cats are dumb, I can’t argue that you are wrong. I can’t say: “No, you don’t like cats.” That’s dumb.

 

However, if you think cats are superior to dogs – objectively, and irrelevant of your preference for them – then we absolutely can argue about it and your opinion absolutely can be wrong. We would need to define superior – smarter? More loyal? Easier to train? More independent? Less likely to eat you after you die? – and then we would need to find some facts – number of people annual who are killed by cats vs. by dogs; relative intelligent testing, etc – and then we could have a rousing argument. We would form our opinions based on the truth as we knew it – as thoroughly and accurately as we could know it – and then we would have a real argument. At the end, one person would have made a better argument, and thus would be considered ‘right’.

 

If after this argument I still prefer whichever animal I have professed to like best, no problem. Preferences are made up of a myriad of factors and I’m not going to argue those. But you can’t throw up your hands in the middle of an argument and proclaim “that’s just your opinion” when my opinion is based on facts and logic. Well, you can, but it doesn’t mean you win; you just refuse to play.

 

All of this is not to say that my opinion is always right, either: I’m sure it is very often wrong. If I think that body building is a dumb sport – not for me, but for everybody – then you absolutely can have an argument with me where you point out that it is no “more dumb” then any other sport, that it takes the same level of dedication, that people enjoy it and it makes them happy and that all these things are the metrics by which we judge the value of a sport – and lo and behold, turns out my opinion is wrong. But you have to actually have, you know, points, or nothing gets accomplished.

 

I also hate “Well I disagree” as a phrase on its own, as if the fact that you disagree is – by itself – somehow relevant or important. There was one instance in my class a few years ago when we watched a documentary about Barbie and eating disorders: one of the students raised his hand and said, literally:

 

“Well, I don’t think it’s true that Barbie influences people to get eating disorders.”

 

I see. And why, oh wise Socrates, do you think this?

 

“I just don’t think that happens. I don’t think people are influenced by that so much. I don’t think it’s really true.”

 

Now, if the Universe was kind, my professor would’ve rolled her eyes, laughed derisively and said “Well, decades of research by actual professionals with real insight and years of training disagree with you, and since you just pulled your opinion out of some amorphous blob called “feelings”, it doesn’t count. Sit down.” Instead she nodded, looked a little sad, and said “That’s interesting” before changing the subject.

 

It’s not interesting! It’s wrong. And even if he is right – if, it turns out, Barbie has absolutely no affect on our self-esteem, despite the studies that demonstrate otherwise – then he needs to prove that. With facts, or a rational argument, or logic. Anything.

 

This culture that no one is ever wrong doesn’t teach people to think critically because they’ve never had to defend their thoughts or question the thoughts of others; everything is an opinion, and all opinions are valid.

 

I don’t want to live on this planet anymore. That’s just my opinion, though.

 

I had great feedback from all you pathetic single ladies when I told you my amazing secrets for capturing the heart of Mr. Right. I was so happy to hear that my careful guidance could drag you out of your lonely ruts and into the true happiness of coupledom! I haven’t gotten any wedding invites yet, but I assume they are in the mail.

So, in order to continue with what is rapidly becoming my life’s work (helping you poor unfortunate souls suck a bit less), I have come up with this guide for reducing stress. Believe me, I understand that life can be stressful; juggling work, fun, family and hobbies is a bit like having four full-time jobs, but with these simple tips you’ll be well on your way to complete relaxation.

1. Make a to-do list

How will you make sure that you’re following a good plan, ticking off each little task on the road to success if you don’t have a to-do list? Newsflash: you won’t. Your hopes and dreams will languish in obscurity and you will live a small, meaningless and ultimately boring life. Your joy and optimism will fade like so many old letters tucked into forgotten attics and one day you’ll open your eyes and realize that everything you ever cared about has fallen to dust and all your great expectations were mere lies and disappointments. While the rest of the world has climbed mountains and slain dragons you will have wasted your best years, and only on the door of death will you finally see the futility of it all.

So remember, make a list! :D

2. Get enough sleep

Sleep is important – it allows our mind and body to refresh and heal for the day ahead. Have you ever seen a stressed cat? No, of course you haven’t, and do you know why? It’s because cats sleep for an average of fourteen hours a day. Clearly, we could learn a thing or two from our feline companions. I also recommend paying thorough attention to your genitalia, since this seem to be an important factor in de-stressing cat-style.

3. Get some exercise

Exercise helps us relax by releasing natural de-stressing hormones into our brain. Thus, the more exercise you do, the less stressed you will be. So go for a run! Find a good triathlon in your neighbourhood and set up a gruelling training schedule! If you can’t get out for a run, start doing jumping jacks – in your living room, in line at the bank, on the subway. Don’t worry about neglecting your relationships or responsibilities: the only thing that matters is getting that sweet sweet dopamine hit.

4. Practice meditation

When life has run you into the ground, sometimes the best thing you can do is take a few minutes to breathe deeply and rid your mind of distractions. Turn off your phone, shut down the computer, sit cross-legged on the floor and focus on your heartbeat. Feel the energy of the Universe moving through and let the worries of the day wash past on a tide of peace. When you boss comes into your office and demands to know why the minutes from the meeting last week still haven’t been sent out, calmly reply that you are tuning your soul to the vibrations of the Universe. Your boss will appreciate your commitment to keeping cool in a stressful situation and definitely probably won’t fire you maybe.

5. Forgive and forget

Holding on to negativity is the absolutely worst thing when it comes to stress. The best way to let go of negativity is to forgive the people who have hurt you and forget the hurtful events. Sometimes it can be difficult to release the past: in this case, I recommend cold, calculated revenge against whoever hurt you. Slowly destroy everything that matters in his or her life: ruin their relationships, send their career into a tailspin, urinate on their black velvet Elvis painting. Take everything that ever mattered to them and when they finally try to find succour in death, frustrate their every attempt to embrace sweet eternity. Once a truly broken human stands before you, naked of all pride and bereft of hope, you can finally release the burden of negativity from your heart.

You can also try writing them an angry letter and then ripping it up. I hear that’s cathartic too.

Wasn’t that easy? No big secrets here: just simple, effective tactics to release all that stress in your life. I’m so honoured to be a part of your relaxed new existence.

Namaste!

Plenty of my friends gravitate to new technology and ideas like happy little moths; the lure of faster, shinier, sleeker and sexier is just too much for them. They are the ones who get excited about the newest iPhone, video game or coffee-percolating system. They keep me abreast of all the exciting new developments of an endlessly advancing world.

I, however, am not an early adopter. I am the opposite, and it’s great. I save money, I avoid stress, and I swear I don’t have to work as hard. Life for the late adopter is slower paced and deliciously devoid of competition, if rife with awkward moment because what do you mean you’ve never heard of Mumford and Sons?

The truth is I never know what’s going on, and it’s awesome.

Firstly, I never feel the need to “keep up with the Joneses”. I keep my technology until it breaks, not until something newer or better comes along. If a video game that interests me isn’t compatible with my four-year-old laptop, then I don’t play it. Everyone else can talk about Diablo 3, I’m going to talk about watching Shark Week…from 2008…on DVD. I’m precluded from even trying to be cool; I’m already so behind the times that I could never catch up and thus I am relieved of the burden of the attempt.

When I do decide I want something – a smart phone, a tablet, the Internet – all my wonderful early adopter friends rush in with loads of savvy advice. They’ve tried the different makes and models, they know the software and the hardware, and they’re more than happy to tell me all about it. I get so much good advice, because everybody else has spent the last three years figuring out the different options. Because of them, my decision is easier and usually successful.

I DO hate the first few hours of new-thing ownership: setting it up, reading the manual, downloading and syncing and blah blah blah…but if I have any trouble, I have half a dozen people on speed dial. When I can’t figure out how to upload a photo to Facebook mobile, somebody out there is ready and eager to help me. When I joined twitter and shortly thereafter concluded that it was dumb, it was the early adopters in my life who showed me all the ways that it could be magical (although I honestly still think it is kind of dumb).

I don’t have cable, not because I think this makes me a morally superior human being, but because I am enormously cheap (and there is nothing good on anyway). I don’t have internet at home for the same reason and also because with only my smart phone for entertainment I am much more likely to read a book or, you know, shower. These are choices I have made mostly through laziness but I really think they have made me happier (or at least forced me to go outside sometimes).

When I want to start watching a show, it’s already been cancelled– so I can watch the whole thing all at once! The exception to all this is Game of Thrones. I started watching that when it actually started and now I am anxiously awaiting the next season like all you other chumps (I don’t really think you’re chumps – I’m sure you’re lovely). You never run into this problem when you decide to watch every episode of Buffy or Reboot. I have seen every episode of the first seven seasons of the X-Files so many times it’s almost embarrassing. Almost.

Also, let’s talk about bands. I am perennially behind on the latest or even relatively recent bands. You know that old hipster saying, “I was into them before they were cool?” Well, I was into them so long after they stopped being cool that it probably comes across as ironic. It’s not – I really did only learn about Queen a few years ago. I didn’t know who Pink Floyd was until the middle of high school. The same goes for movies: remember Back to the Future? I do, in fact I remember them quite well because I only saw them in 2011. I have never seen and will never see Love, Actually. I am fine with all these things, even if it does sometimes make pleasant chit-chat impossible and trendy people enraged.

Have you guys seen these cats on YouTube? They are really funny. You should check it out.

I wouldn’t consider myself a technophobe: I can and do use technology, and I enjoy many of its benefits, but I’m not a slave to it. More often than not, my phone is on silent. I take hours to return texts. Half the time, I would rather call you, though I avoid it if I can because I know so many people who dislike phone calls. When you start talking about the latest iPad, my eye glaze over and I start thinking about pugs. It’s nothing personal: without early adopters, we’d all still be thinking that faxing was a bourgeoisie luxury and getting indignant when people expected us to have answering machines. I like that you guys exist. But I am not one of you, and I never will be, even if I do re-teach my mom how to forward an email every 6 months.

If you need me, I’ll probably be lounging on my couch, not joining Instagram like a boss. Do people even still say that? Unlikely.

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.