If at First You Don't Succeed, Skydiving is Not for You.

It’s Sunday, and so far today, I have been muy productive. Are you totally impressed by my bilingual abilities? You should be, because they are dope. The other things I can say in Spanish are “en fuego!” and “el gato!” AND I can combine my three Spanish words/phrases to make the very impressive “el gato es muy en fuego!” which may or may not be grammatically correct but makes for a humorous phrase that hopefully won’t ever have to be used in real life. It would be a funny thing for someone to pop into a room, say, and then leave, all random-like. I would like that. That should be added to every sitcom ever, don’t you think?

So anyway, very productive. I’m having a visitor tomorrow so I did some housecleaning, which included the very classy and not-at-all disgusting tasks of spot-cleaning cat urine out of the hall carpet; scrubbing grime from the tub floor; and scooping the litterbox. I know! The Queen of England has NOTHING on my glamour, NOTHING.

I had two things I wanted to discuss today. I have to get prettified soon and go see a matinee of a show that one of my favorite local actors is in, and it’s at a fancy theater so I probably shouldn’t wear my jeans that are ripped out at the ass and my “Zombies ate my Brain” t-shirt, as much as I love them both.

First: there is a huge problem happening locally that needs to be addressed.

Suicide by skydiving.

Before I start, I just want to say that there is nothing funny about suicide. I am not making fun of suicide. Please let me repeat this in case you decide to get up-in-arms and all “AMY IS MOCKING MENTAL ILLNESS YO SHE HAS NO FEELINGS OR HUMAN EMOTION.” Nope. Not the case. Actually have more empathy toward people with depressive tendencies than a lot of other things in the world. THERE IS NOTHING FUNNY ABOUT SUICIDE.

However, two people in the past three years in my area have killed themselves by jumping out of a plane. ON PURPOSE.

This is very, very distressing.

First, in 2008, this young man pretended to be taking photos for a school project and went up in a small plane with people skydiving. He then LEAPT FROM THE PLANE WITHOUT A CHUTE before the other people in the plane could stop him and landed on a house. And died, obviously.

This was disturbing on a lot of levels and we talked about it at work a LOT. I mean, I get people who want to end it all. I do. Things get overwhelming. But in such a painful, scary, and over-the-top way? That boggles my mind. You can’t have been thinking, as you fell, “This was a very, very good idea!” I can’t imagine you thought that, right? I get pills. Or even cutting. But jumping out of a plane? That takes sincere dedication. Also, can you even IMAGINE being the people who lived in that house. “What was that NOISE on the ROOF, Harold?” “I’ll go check it out OH MY GOD RUTH IT IS A DEAD MAN.”

But you know, I was pretty sure this was a one-time occurrence. How often do you get suicide by sky-diving? And it’s not like I live in a HUGE area. I mean, sure, it’s a big area, but it’s not the sky-diving capital of the world, or anything.

Then, last week?

This happened. 

And this gentleman was an actual skydiver, who had jumped over 9,000 times! Who taught skydiving! And he went up, left a note, jumped, PURPOSELY UNHOOKED HIS PARACHUTE, and then fell to his death.

This is even sadder. I mean, this was a man who wanted, I think, to die doing what he loved. So awful.

I don’t even know what conclusions to draw from this. I can’t imagine wanting to commit suicide in what has to be the scariest way possible, other than getting eaten by bears. This is just incomprehensible to me. I suppose people who have actually skydived might have different opinions on this? Maybe it’s a lovely way to go. Maybe your adrenaline is so high that you wouldn’t feel a thing when you hit, I don’t know. But I’m scared of planes and I’m scared of heights and I’m scared of jumping off of things (including small things, like curbs or steps, because, as mentioned repeatedly, CLUMSY) so I know if I were ever in a skydiving situation? I would not even be able to jump. I would stand there in the doorway until someone shoved me out or they landed the plane. No way I’d jump out of a plane. And definitely not to my death. Eeesh.

Oh, and sidebar, eaten by bears. Remember that guy that WAS eaten by bears? Do most people find that sad or funny? Is it awful I think he totally got what he deserved and the only person I feel any sympathy for is his girlfriend? THAT GUY THOUGHT HE WAS A BEAR. And that the bears were SIMPATICO with him. Dude, you so deserved to be bear chow. No sympathy. Sympathy for your poor, deluded girlfriend you got chomped along with you, but not with you. YOU ARE NOT A BEAR. But you ARE bear FOOD. I didn’t watch the documentary about this because I don’t care to watch crazy people who think they are simpatico with wild animals. Wild animals are WILD ANIMALS. You are insane to think otherwise.

Second thing we have to discuss. Personal space.

So I was playing around on Wikipedia. Sometimes I get caught in a Wikipedia link situation and I get trapped and forget where I came from, like a maze. I honestly don’t know what brought me to this, but I found this the other day:

This is a graphic of the personal space with which the average American is comfortable with various people in their lives. This made me laugh until I almost choked to death.

OK, so first, I have total personal space issues. Yesterday, I went to a concert. It was my first outdoor street concert. I’ve been to outdoor concerts before, but this was a free street concert thing. I’ve always had to pay for outdoor seating before. So I went in expecting it to be insanity. I avoid free things, because usually free things are full of looneys and/or people who are badly behaved and/or people who are entitled because nothing brings out entitlement like giving someone something for free. I’m going to write a scholarly paper about this someday and it will win a prize. Is there a prize for awesome scholarly papers? What if I include many pie charts?

So, outdoor concert. Not as bad as you might think, but my personal space was TOTALLY VIOLATED. There was a guy pretty much humping his girlfriend in front of me (who, apropos of nothing, apparently thought he was Robert Smith from The Cure, what with the hair and the stench of emo desperation and black nail polish and such); there was this weird group of throwback Woodstock hippies in front of me, one of whom was a man smoking a cigar as big as he was and that smelled like burning hair perfume for an hour and fifteen minutes; there was some kid with a soul patch (heaven and saints preserve us from affected facial hair) who decided smoking a GIGANTIC joint in the middle of the street with all of the cops milling around was a good idea (and this just tickled the SHIT out of the Woodstockians – “OMG, do you SMELL that? Boy, THAT sure does take me back. Ha ha ha. Just like the old days!” Shut up, Patchouli Joe, there’s nothing awesome about smoking weed in the middle of a crowded street with adorable children with painted faces and balloon animals running around, it’s just douchey) and there was a guy who thought this was a mosh pit who kept smacking the shit out of my arm as he flailed around aimlessly to every single song. I love the band, I loved the concert, and I actually didn’t have a breakdown (I think I might have had a bit of a contact high, come to think of it), but I did go home and take a hot shower because PERSONAL SPACE ISSUES.

(Oh, also? I don’t have an issue with smoking weed, per se. So again, don’t be judgey. I just think probably there’s a time and place. Also, I think it makes you very, very stupid, giggly, paranoid, and a waste of space, in 99% of cases. I don’t care for drugs that make my amazing brain stop working as quickly and efficiently as it does. And yes, I am speaking from experience, so you know what? Suck it, haters.)

ANYWAY BACK ON TOPIC FOR THE LOVE OF PETE.

This graphic says that the only people we’re comfortable coming in our “intimate distance” bubble are “family, pets, and very close friends.” And that bubble is EIGHTEEN INCHES from us. That is only a FOOT AND A HALF. You know who gets that close to me? My cats. My nephew. And people who want to get punched. That is SO CLOSE. That is all up in my face. No thank you. One time, a person I know who was chemically altered decided he was going to lick my neck and ears because he gets away with that shit with other mutual acquaintances and apparently the chemicals he was on told him it was a good idea to try it with me, too. He’s very old and I almost broke him into a million pieces shoving him away and running to the bathroom to Silkwood scrub myself. GAH WHAT THE HELL.

“Personal distance” is 1.5 to 4 feet and is for friends and acquaintances. Since I’m reserving my intimate distance bubble for cats and nephew, I’m grudgingly allowing people I love into my personal distance bubble. BUT DON’T YOU GET ANY CLOSER.

“Social distance” – 4 to 12 feet; “Public space,” more than 12 feet. I want to create a final category: “Keep the frig away from me space,” 27.5 feet. I think at that distance I won’t have to smell your cologne, deal with your nonsense, have you make weird eye contact, have you touch my arm while we’re talking (what the hell? Get that off me! I don’t know that you washed after you peed! GERMY HANDS OFF JACKASS!) or various other things that I find upsetting and make me want to curl up in a ball and rock.

What? Yes, I’m totally fun in social situations. Why do you ask?

Alright. Time to be pretty. Christina Aguilera says I’m beautiful so IT MUST BE TRUE. I suppose it can’t hurt to brush my hair, though.

Dispute not with her: she is a lunatic.

So, remember we talked the other day about Dr. Lady-Business and how I escaped with my parts all intact? Yay, right? Oh, I sent the men away that day. Well, men, sorry, I guess you might  not want to click up there because it's about lady parts and such. ANYWAY. So yeah, those of you that remember that situation, that was a total check in the win column for me, right? Instead of major invasive surgery that would leave me as barren as a wind-swept plain, I got a prescription for pills and a fare-thee-well! +1, Dr. Lady-Business, +1.

Well, I started taking the pills that night. And the next day, some strange things happened.

First, things started being very, very upsetting. No, not just "things." Everything. And by "upsetting," I mean "I would start weeping uncontrollably at the drop of a hat." Partial list of things that made me cry (and I'm not talking polite tears, here, people, I'm talking snotty boo-hooing) over the past 36 hours:

• Sam getting his soul back on an old episode of Supernatural that I just got around to watching
• How expensive groceries are
• How funny this show I was watching was and how happy I was to be watching it and how sad it was that EVERYONE COULDN'T BE WATCHING IT, EVERYONE!
• How far away Tuesday is
• How long it took my cellphone to charge
• The person who rudely pulled out in front of me out of turn at the grocery store
• The fact that my cellphone keypad is so small and I always hit the wrong letters
• Talking to my father on the phone about things that weren't even sad
• The local news
• A gigantic copy job I was given at work
• Someone asking "are you ok?"
• Seeing a photo of someone I don't like
• Getting a text from someone I love and miss

I'm self-aware enough to know that THIS ISN'T NORMAL. I mean, in a regular day, I might tear up once or twice. And honestly, it's usually over a TV show, because I'm a sap. But most of the time it's because I've laughed so hard I've brought myself to tears.

Then, flip-side! TOTAL RAGE.

Things that enraged me:

• The grocery bag boy who talks too loud (in retrospect, I feel kind of bad because I'm pretty sure he's mentally challenged)
• How slow my computer was loading because I had something I wanted to watch now dammit
• My cat jumping up and landing directly on my diaphragm because that shit is PAINFUL
• How incredibly idiotic this one guy seemed every time he opened his mouth
• My alarm clock
• Stupid email forwards with subject lines like "LOL YOU GOTTA READ THIS"
• And everything on the list above, after I'd finished weeping, except Supernatural, my father, the funny show, and the text message 

Also, I can not sleep. This isn't completely out of the ordinary - I've had insomnia since I was in my early teens - but I mean, now, to the point of laying there thinking about all kinds of stuff and jerking myself awake because I think I'm falling and waking up an hour later because I had a sad dream and being very upset AND THEN FURIOUS.

So, the logical conclusion after two nights of this, of course, was that I was losing my mind.

I was kind of distressed about this. I mean, I like my mind! It's a good mind! It does a lot of things well! I mean, sure, it gets weird about some things, and hung up unneccessarily on things that aren't all that important? But overall, I was a total winner in the mind lottery. And now I was losing it! Well, that's a fine how-do-you-do! Was I going to have to go to the mental institution? Because I didn't think I would be able to handle that. I mean, I saw Girl, Interrupted. That place was annoying. I mean, there was that one girl with ROAST CHICKEN under her BED. That is UNSANITARY. And then Angelina Jolie with her charismatic insanity - well, you know I'd probably end up being one of her followers, what with my mind being all softened and all, and that wouldn't end well. I'm pretty sure the chicken-under-the-bed-lady ended up committing suicide. (And wait, the actress died in real life, too, right? OH, NO, I CAN'T GO TO THE MENTAL INSTITUTION IT IS A KILLER PLACE.) 

And what would I do there? I mean, what do people DO in the insane asylum? Are you medicated all the time so you're drooling? Do you have to see a therapist? Because I hate therapy, I always do it wrong and end up rambling and the therapist gets VERY FRUSTRATED. Are there puzzles? I would get bored of all puzzles, all the time. I mean, there's only so many puzzles a person can do. I mean, side piece side piece side piece I AM SO BORED. Is there an actual padded room? I feel like I'd end up there a lot. I don't think I would behave. Wouldn't a padded room be totally restful? And also safe for someone as clumsy as myself. You'd have to hang out with crazies and you wouldn't be able to get away from them, wouldn't you? It would be like a long bus ride with NO STOPS. This is a VERY BAD IDEA.

There were also the crazy dreams, so maybe it wasn't as much insanity as the gift of prophecy? Although you know if I got that I'd end up Cassandra and no one would believe me. I mean, last night, I had a dream that I went out with this guy I kind of dig (which is how I knew, even when I was in it, it wasn't real - I even said in the dream, "How is this happening? You'd never go out with me, I'm too weird for you" to him) and apparently he was super-sensitive? I don't know. He held up a CD and it was all the poetry I'd ever written and said "I've memorized this" and I was charmed by that. WHAT DOES THIS MEAN. Because let me tell you, if that shit happened in real life, I'd have a few questions. Like, how did you get all of that, stalker? And, who's reading it on the CD, because I've never spoken most of that aloud anywhere but the privacy of my own home, so are you bugging my home? And you memorized it? Really? You seem to have a lot of free time. Do you have a job? Because the real-life you totally does. THIS SEEMS SUSPECT. So, as you can see, even though dream-me was all "oh, guy who seems kind of adorable in the abstract, you're the sweetest, you like my poetry? We are soulmates" real-life me would not take this well. Therefore, my totally awesome potentially prophetic dreams better not be, because if this actually happens I'm going to mace someone. (Fine, Mr. or Mrs. Literal-and-Afraid-of-the-Idea-of-Me-With-a-Weapon, I don't actually have mace. I have breath spray, though, and I think it would totally hurt if you sprayed it in someone's eyes.)

This morning, as I was doing the COPY JOB FROM HELL and the copier was not cooperating so I punched it a couple of times (this is not encouraged behavior but the copier DESERVED it wait I'm sorry baby I didn't mean it please don't leave me) it crossed my mind that WAIT! These odd things that are happening to me? Coincided with the timing of the first new pill. And a lot of odd new things happening that happen once you take a new medication? They even have a NAME for that. SIDE EFFECTS. I work at a damn answering service. WHY DIDN'T I THINK OF THIS SOONER.

So, as you do, I Wikipedia'd it. What, you'd call your doctor? You'd be on hold for freakin'-EVER if you did that. Wikipedia loads in like SECONDS. I mean, who has the time when you might be losing your mind and/or becoming prophetic?

Partial list of side effects from the medication I'm on: depression, mood swings, emotional instability, aggression, abnormal crying, insomnia, forgetfulness, sleep disorders, and back pain. (I left off the icky and weird ones because *knock on wood* I'm not experiencing those. "Rhinitis?" THAT SOUNDS HORRIFYING. Oh, wait, it's a stuffy nose. Aw! Rhinitis! Now it sounds adorable, like a baby rhino disease. YES, I know rhino- is a Greek prefix for nose. Shut up, person who always knows all the stuff and assumes no one else does.)

WHAT.
THE.
HELL.

OK, this is like the scariest, most distressing list of side effects ever. Per one of my Twitter friends: "Wow, PMS in pill form? That's delightful!" It is. IT IS TOTALLY PMS IN PILL FORM. Only x100. Like, with PMS, I'm a little crotchety, but it's something I can deal with. I mean, I would probably be very annoyed by someone acting like a total tool, but I wouldn't cut a bitch for laughing too loud. I WANT TO CUT A BITCH FOR LAUGHING TOO LOUD RIGHT NOW.

Aggression? Really? A pill can induce aggression? Listen, I'm already totally aggressive. I don't think this pill needs to encourage my natural propensity toward that. That could be disastrous. I can see myself just throwing myself out of the car window onto the roof of the car next to me and clinging there like a furious monkey baby for pulling out in front of me and then slowing down.

And then we have "abnormal crying." I don't..."abnormal"? Really? So I assume you mean the crying you'd do when being, say, bashed on your toe with a hammer is normal crying, but the crying I've been doing over, oh, I don't know, NOT HAVING ANY SHREDDED CHEESE IN THE HOUSE THIS IS THE WORST NIGHT OF MY LIFEEEEEEE is abnormal?

Mood swings. Why don't you just shut your goddamn mouth, list of side effects. If I needed your input I'd ask for it. Aw! List of side effects! I LOVE YOU SO MUCH IT'S LIKE PHYSICAL PAIN.

I'm really hoping that "sleep disorders" means "totally vivid and maybe prophetic dreams." It does, right? It's my list and I've decided so. I'm thinking you probably aren't going to want to cross me today?

I'm not going crazy, I'm just taking a medication that makes me feel like I am. Well! That's reassuring!

Listen, this is totally awesome. No, seriously. I can't think of anything more awesome. So I'm going to go cry about it? Probably for the next 45 minutes or so? Keep an eye on things around here for me. I think I'll be back to normal in approximately two weeks. Better living through pharmaceuticals, ladies and gentleman, it's a wonderful world we live in!

(Title's from Shakespeare, King Richard III. Thanks, Will! Love you to pieces and NOW I'M CRYING AGAIN DAMMIT.)
 

All the Party People in the House say…“Meh”

If you’ve ever been around theater people, you know they like to socialize. A lot. Drinks after rehearsal; cast parties after a successful run of a show. I don’t do these things. I used to. Then again, I used to drink regularly, which made these things tolerable. There is nothing sadder than being the only sober person in a room full of theater people when you’re already not good at social interaction. There is a LOT. Of DRAMA. At a THEATER PARTY. People are drinking. There is yelling. Someone always ends up crying. Someone else ends up on the ground for some reason. There are fights. I haven’t been to one in years, but this is how they used to be, and I’ve heard stories and seen photos – it seems it’s still going on. I want to remember my cast and crew fondly, not for the one night of drunken debauchery spent post-performances. Also, I’m pretty sure I’d say something stupid at the party and no one would speak to me again. I can be really blunt. If someone’s doing something stupid, I usually call them on it. “That’s a really stupid idea, I can’t back that,” I told a friend recently who is rushing into a romance that I am convinced is ill-fated. When I told people I said that they were shocked. “You can’t SAY that to someone!” they said. Why? You can’t? Really? Even if it’s the truth? Because it’s a really stupid idea. I’m not saying something that isn’t true. It’s really, really stupid. Like, Thelma and Louise driving off the cliff stupid. Like saying “I’ll be right back” in a B-horror movie stupid. Like drinking anything Jim Jones gives you stupid. I can’t say that? That’s frowned upon? Like, by societal norms, or something? That’s annoying. I’d want someone to stop a younger me before she decided to go out with that one crazy guy that time, why wouldn’t people want a warning?

See, I don’t go to parties. (I don’t go to crowded movie theaters, malls, or concerts, if I can help it, either.) There are three reasons for this:

1.   I have mild-to-moderate social anxiety. The idea of being forced to relate, on a social level, with people makes me nervous. I feel like I’m going to say something stupid. Then, in order to cover up my nervousness, I do one of two things: I start rambling (this causes people to think I’m adorably neurotic, have Tourette’s, or am a basket case) or I clam up entirely and stand in a corner like the bad fairy who wasn’t invited to the christening, glowering at everyone. None of these is really preferable to staying home, which is what I end up doing, if I can help it. 

2.   I have agoraphobia. I don’t like crowds. I have a physical aversion to being touched, even by accident, by strangers. (I don’t like much to be touched by people I know, either. I kind of need to be locked up in a crystal tower for the rest of my life to avoid the issues that plague me.) Large crowds = lots and lots and lots of touching, usually by accident, sometimes on purpose. Do you know about frotteurism? It’s a thing. It’s a real thing. People might be doing this to you. That bump against your thigh might not have been by accident. Think about this the next time you’re in a crowd. That doesn’t make you nervous? Seriously? 

3.   I hate people. 

The first two are real issues, which I suppose I could work on with the help of a team of psychiatrists, drugs, aversion therapy, what-have-you, and come out all shiny-happy-people on the other side. Here’s the thing. I’ve been to therapy. Therapy sucks, and doesn’t work for me. Neither do pills. I know, I know. “My therapist is awesome!” “My pills are a godsend!” “Are you a Christian Scientist?” I’m happy for you, I really am, and no, I totally believe in better living through pharmacology. My brain doesn’t work like other people’s brains do, I’ve tried both therapy and drugs, and I don’t want to be a zombie robot person again, which is what drugs do to me, and I don’t want to tell some stranger – a stranger I am paying my life savings to – my issues, either. I mean, that’s what the Internet’s for, right? Strangers you don’t have to pay will listen to your problems! (No, Nervous Nellie, I’m not going to tell you my problems. Relax. They’re none of your business.) 

The last one – well, yeah, I hate people. I really, really hate 90% of people. Oh, what? No! Not you! I couldn’t possibly mean YOU! Most people are – how to put this nicely? Kind of useless. They don’t make an effort. They don’t think before they act. They ignore obvious social cues. They – and this is one of my number one pet peeves of all time – waste my time. 

I have very, very limited time. I work two jobs. I have what amounts to almost a full-time job at the theater where I volunteer. I am home, on average, one or two nights a week, other than the time I’m sleeping. So when I have free time, it is a luxury. People that have no consideration for that time make me want to throttle them. If I am on my way home from work, and you stop me for “just a minute” to chat, even when I say I’m going to be late for something else? RUDE. If I’m on my way home from volunteering, and I’m so ready to sleep that I can barely keep my eyes open, and you decide you’re lonely and you want it to be social hour and WON’T.STOP.TALKING? RUDE. If I’m doing something, and it’s working fine, and you think I should be doing it differently just because you’re a time-wasting shit-weasel with nothing better to do all day than to think up ways to waste my time and fray my nerves? RUDE. If you tell me you’ll be somewhere at a certain time and you show up half an hour late and I could have been doing something else with that time? RUDE and INCONSIDERATE. If you tell me you’re going to call me and you don’t and I was waiting around for it? RUDE. Do I need to go on? I think you get it. Wasting my time is a cardinal sin with me. Like, if I had been Moses with the Ten Commandments, that would totally have been #2: 

THOU SHALT NOT WASTE MY TIME 

#1, of course, is, as always: 

THOU SHALT TAKE RESPONSIBILITY FOR THINE OWN SHIT 

I haven’t decided on the other 8 yet. One of them has to do with waiting your turn in lines (whether at a store, in a line of cars waiting to merge, whatever), though. One is about not shitting where you eat (literally and figuratively.) And one is about not touching me. That’s #3.  

NO TOUCHING 

Because Arrested Development quotes belong on the New and Improved Shiny Ten Commandments. 

Do you know people like this? I call them Time Sucks. (Sucks like they suck away your time, not “they suck,” but they also do suck, so it works on many levels and is clever like that.) There are definite rules to dealing with a Time Suck. First: recognizing a time suck. They have sad and/or desperate eyes. They are needy. When you are around them, time….sloooowssss….downnnnnn. The rest of the world, however, the world you are missing, seems to be going by at a frenetic pace you are desperate to rejoin, but you cannot, because you! Have been captured! By a Time Suck! The key rule in avoiding Time Sucks: be firm. NO WAFFLING. Tell the Time Suck – FIRMLY – “No, I’m sorry, no time now.” Do not be fooled by the sad eyes or passive-aggressive, “Oh, ok, I was just…” NO! It is a TRICK! You will be looking at vacation photos until DOOMSDAY, I am TELLING YOU! Briskly walk away! You have a MISSION and PURPOSE! The MISSION and PURPOSE is to get out of the Time Suck’s orbit, because I am telling you, he or she WILL SUCK YOU IN AND YOU WILL DIE THERE AND YOUR DEATH WILL BE SLOW! SLOW AND BORING! 

Also, listen, I am almost always exhausted. I have this hereditary thing where I can’t sleep. Sometimes I can. But not for long. And not well. So I often am running on very little sleep. This makes me cranky. Some days I’ve gotten more sleep and I’m better than others. But you don’t want to bother me on the days I got less than four hours. You really don’t want to load me up with trivial details. Sometimes I yell. Sometimes I just wander away. Sometimes I say words that aren’t in the correct order and make no sense. It’s never very entertaining. Mostly, it’s scary. See? It’s best, if you know you have something stupid and worthless and time-wastey you want to share? To stay right away from me. Because I do not care for it, and mentally, I am not able to function on the level it takes to deal with it. 

Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes, people. Hate. Here’s the thing, though. Unless I know you pretty well, you would have no idea if I hated you or not. I can count on one hand the number of people who know me well enough to read my facial expressions to tell if I’m just being polite or if I want to smack you for being an ass. One of my theater friends is excellent at this. She knows just when to swoop in and rescue me. We have shorthand for it: flames. This is from the movie Clue. Which I love. Irrationally. If you don’t, you might have missed the bus to crazytown. You love Clue, right? (No, not Clueless. Which is also fun, but a very different movie.) If you do, you probably know the scene: Madeline Kahn is talking about the woman her husband had an affair with. “I hated her…so much. It – It – the - flames…on the side of my face….burning…” And she acts it out, and it is brilliant, with her hand crawling up the side of her face. You know about this, right? I suppose you could YouTube it, but I’m not even going to give you a link, because I want you to get the whole movie right now and watch it, because the entire thing is a big old bowl of awesomesauce. Anyway, my theater friend knows when I am having flames, and she insinuates herself between me and the person who is causing me to flame out, and says something like, “Amy! I need you for an important thing, in the place!” and helps me with a timely escape before I roll up my script into a tight tube and give them a hasty and unplanned tracheotomy with it. 

If you want to get all psychological, I’m sure this all stems from me rejecting people before they can reject me, because I’m a beautiful broken disaster of a woman who was a severe bullying victim for most of her formative years. Or, if you want to be more practical about it and stop being judgmental and thinking you know me because you don’t, a lot of people are just really, really stupid, and small talk makes me want to scream. I don’t want to chat. I want to get shit done. I want to be doing something important; if there is nothing important to be doing, I want to either be on my couch watching television, or sleeping. These are my priorities. Chatting about what happened at rehearsal for a show I’m not involved in, what some guy I don’t even know said one time and how shocking that was, or how much your cell phone plan costs you per month, then broken down per day, really is not a judicious use of the small amount of leisure time I have, thanks, though. I know. It’s all about knowing how to play the game. I’ll never get ahead in this world without knowing this very basic skill, how to chat mindlessly about nothing. Fine. If that’s the case, I’ll stay where I am. As mentioned, I hate and fear time sucks; small talk = a major time suck. 

I break down social invitations (the ones where I have a choice of attending; some are, unfortunately, mandatory) thusly: a. will I enjoy it more than watching television or sleeping? b. will it cause a nervous breakdown of epic proportions? If I can safely answer yes and no to these questions, I will attend. If not, no, thanks. So if you ask me out and I say yes, congratulations! You are more important to me than television or my bed, and not likely to cause me to weep in the bathroom. 

This having been said, I am, above all else, a theater person. I went to school to learn how to act; when called upon to attend a function where it matters that I interact in an adult fashion, I do so with aplomb. I’m not saying I enjoy myself. I can honestly count on one hand the number of times in the past ten years or so that I’ve enjoyed a social function. But people don’t know that. I’m very well-behaved. I can, even - and have, even, and will, again, I’m sure – MC the event. In front of everyone. I know! Fancy! I’m good at it. I take it on like a role – I’m playing the part of a socially-poised adult who likes to entertain. And I knock that role out of the park. I make people laugh; I make things run smoothly; I improvise and goof around and I should get a damn Oscar, honestly, because inside I’m screaming get me OUT of here, already, TOO MANY GODDAMN PEOPLE ONE OF THEM MIGHT TOUCH ME! 

There are people who are suffering, much more severely than I am, with social anxiety. Jessica has been blogging her way through dealing with her issues with it, and I applaud her bravery – she’s facing the problem head-on, like an adult does, with grace and humor. I’m taking the other route – the Bartleby the Scrivener route, I guess. When faced with something he didn’t want to do, Bartleby said “I would prefer not to.” This is my go-to answer. I would prefer not to. I would prefer not to go to a party where I’m going to spend the whole time afraid to open my mouth because I’m afraid I’ll look like a fool and I won’t enjoy it anyway. I would prefer not to. I can, I could force myself to, but would prefer not to. I thank everyone for attempting to include me, and I appreciate the invitations, and once and a while, I’ll actually accept one, but for the most part, when I have the opportunity to do so, I would prefer to stay home. I would prefer to do that. I would prefer very much to do that, actually, so I think I will.

I Believe You Can Make Me Whole!

Today, a crazy person was coming into the library. I was leaving. Granted, I was in a bad mood today. But when he stopped his singing and chatting to himself to say “Hi, how are you!” to me in a weird, leering way, I did not say hi back. I smiled, vaguely, and continued walking. As you do when you are walking alone and a crazy person talks to you.

“Great, thanks for asking! Bitch,” he called after me.

This is ok? I know, this is a crazy person, as evidenced by the out-loud conversation with himself he was having, and the singing, and whatnot. But when someone doesn’t stop and interact with your insanity, you call them a bitch? Out loud? In front of children at the public library?

I just added this to the list. See, I am a crazy magnet. Examples:

1.       A man, dressed in a very nice suit, stopped me on my way to my car once. “Excuse me, ma’am, I’m wondering if you could help me,” he asked. I saw no harm, so stopped. He then pulled a riding crop out of his suit pants, slapped his hand with it, and said, “Have you been a bad girl? Do you need to be punished?”

2.       A man, dressed (in the summer)in many layers of colorful clothing, with deer antlers tied to his head with a length of rawhide, followed me around downtown Schenectady while I was doing work errands on foot and therefore unable to escape, singing “Your BODY! Is a WONDERLAND!” over and over. For half an hour.

3.       I cannot go anywhere on foot without someone asking me for money, a cigarette, a bottle of water, milk (this happened less than a month ago – it was a woman, not asking for money, but for milk – “Ma’am, I’m thirsty, do you have any milk, by any chance?” We were nowhere near the grocery store, and nothing about me indicated that I might have milk), etc. My friends know that if they go somewhere with me, people will start following me around like Jesus in that scary scene in Jesus Christ Superstar with the lepers begging to be healed.

4.       When I was in college, I had no car, and bussed it around. Crazies would move their seats to sit next to me, then either stare silently or tell me their life stories the entire way to school.

I feel it important to say that I am just average-looking, have constant bitchface, and nothing about me indicates I might be a soft-sell.

So thank you, so, so much, douchenozzle at the library, for your kind words. Honestly? I didn’t care how you were. Because I knew how you were. You were insane, that’s how you were. So move on, please. There's a guy with deer horns in Schenectady; he might be interested in a duet.