In 1984, I Was Hospitalized for Approaching Perfection

There are certain rules of etiquette when it comes to dealing with persons in public. Urinal rules. People are generally to be treated as cars; give them their proper space and respect. If I were a hippy I would lament that we should all get in one big pile and love and see the beauty of all things. But I’m not, so I don’t.

Urinal rules state choose the farthest urinal away. Keep your eyes on your own dick. Do not talk. These are etched in stone, brought down from Sinai with veiled, glorious face.

Public rules of interaction can be broken, obviously, upon a social bond in which an understanding has been reached by both parties that normal societal rules need not be observed.

What amazes me is how certain persons feel no need to honor these rules, as if they were exempt. My job requires that I interact with a lot of people. I like these people, generally, and am friendly and as loquacious as I can be within a corporate environment.

Rules state that if someone is reading, do not bother them. They are engaged in art, and a breach from the outside is a terrible act of violence on the part of the intruder.

I have had to resort to complete assholery at my job. I enter work with my headphones in to bypass the gauntlets of “Hello”s I must endure, a bullshit societal observance that makes me feel, at the end of my fifth greeting, as if I’d been politely gang-raped. These are usually accompanied by queries if I have just woken up, or worse, if I am “alright.” Two years of entrance into work in the same state has not produced in these people any sense of pattern. What joy it must be to enter the world as if a baby, each day unpredictable and new!

Once I have made my drink, a putrid concoction simply intended to insert caffeine into my system, I go outside. At which point, I not only have my headphones, but I read at the same time. My goal is to turn myself into a veal: blindfolded, deaf, suspended above the ground so my muscles don’t become chewy. Without fail, however, person upon person insists on interrupting me to chat mindless bullshit.

It’s not that I am excessively misanthropic, I don’t think. Or that I am attempting to appear above people, as I was once accused of. It’s just that I hate people, and think that I am better than them.

Sings adverts for the Weetabix

I’m curious about that case of cigars. I’ve never seen anybody buy a cigar out of there. I would wear one of those T-shirts. Maybe I should get a cigar? But I bet they’re stale. And I don’t like cigars, all that much-heartburn.

At bar, crowded, guy leaning over Jager-dispenser to hit on the waitress, past him, moment of decision: woman leaning over the bar elbows on, man on edge of bar. Can’t fit through completely: turn crotch toward woman. Etiquette involved. More sideways, shows acknowledgement of femininity, lacking vulgarity.

Outside. Options. Table nearest the window, back to the window. This place would be great if not for the people.

-Hey

-Hey

Throw cigarettes down, still wait, wait till waitress comes….

-What’ll you have, hon?

Cute waitress said hon. But it seemed more affectionate. I’m sure she calls everyone hon, but there seemed to be a real feeling to it that time. Maybe not. Maybe…

-Can I get my sheet?
-Isaac, right?

She remembered my name. We will be married on the hills of Ireland, I will plant her belly full of dandelions.
-And you?

Orders something. Not sure. Had it before. Don’t remember. Fuck. Douche with the mowhawk. Dumpy fucking premie baby always with three hot women cause he has fucking ridiculous hair and alcohol problem and sagging pants and no dignity and probably no fucking clue about anything beyond his own cock.

Who picked Metallica? Always. Always.

-She…is really cute.

Inside, turn. Peer through window like orphan into Christmas house, see lit tree and trimmed turkey carcass. The glow. Quick: three people, two ladies, one gent, gents got himself a backwards cap, a mug, one of those cartoonish clown mugs that only hold swill, girl to the left has too much shit on, too much pretty on her. Her?

-Her?
The other one, little more plain, less attempting to be….
-Yeah, that one.
Other one better sale, obviously didn’t care enough to fix her hair all that much, wearing glasses, shows she isn’t vain enough to wear contacts only.
Shit.

-Know what you want?
Don’t fuck this up. The future of your children rests in your answer. Spent all valuable menu contemplation time on sizing up that woman over there; she is drinking a fucking frozen margarita, and any girl that could order a fucking slushy in a pub and sit and drink it, in full view of God and town, with a man with a baseball cap backwards, is not where you need to rest your genetic eggs. Meanwhile this poor girl is waiting on you to say something, anything. Quick, quick, make it casual, make it seem like…

-Can I just….
Just. Good? Wait. Maybe kinda assholish. Just. Wanted casual, but may have diminished the amount of her work in retrieving it. Just. Can I just get…
-get a pint…
Pick something. You are stretching this out way too long. Now she knows that just was just fucking time fill. GOD. TICK TOCK EACH SECOND IS AN ABORTION.
-If today was your last day…
What is this? Peer down. Need something surly but not trite like Guinness.
-and tomorrow was too late
Rogue sounds like I’m trying to be manly. But I like it. Goddamn it. Bass. Nobody sounds fake manly ordering Bass. It’s named after a fucking fish.
-Could you say goodbye to yesterday?
What the fuck is this shit? Who picked this? What is this? Why is this making me so angry?
-Can I get a pint of Rogue?
-Rogue? Sure, hon.
I'm going to die alone.

What dreams may come

Three hours of meetings scheduled with UNT professors on Tuesday. The professor that I've been corresponding with has been nothing but forthcoming so far, but I still don't really have any idea as to what I should be expecting when I get there, other than that I'm going to be sitting down with six professors, one after another, and hopefully selling myself to all of them, somehow. This isn't a formal thing, it's not part of the application process, the guy just offered it to me, which seems like a good thing. My understanding is that the standard grad school application process does NOT, impersonal as it is, include hob-knobbing with the professors prior to applying. However, because this isn't a standard part of the process, I'm not sure that the professors will necessarily know what to do either. My hope is that we'll all sit down and just kind of chat, I'll ask questions about the program and we'll strike up a fairly low-key, yet illuminating conversation. My fear is that I'm going to sit down to a professor staring out at me from behind a giant oak desk, just waiting for me to say something interesting. My other fear is that, out of a sense of near-debilitating desperation, I'll just go into a trance and start offering anything to whoever will guarantee my entry into the program. I just can't bear the thought of another year working at some bullshit job. *tags Ike in*