The Foggy Notion

Occasionally My Parents Wanted To Murder Me

2011-02-12T15:50:00.000-07:00

I have always had a penchant for mischief. I learned walk at a very early age, and quickly discovered all sorts of fun things that I could do with this new knowledge, much to my parents' chagrin.

For example, when my little sister was born I was a few months over one year old. When mom and dad brought their little darling home from the hospital, I was initially very confused and intimidated by the addition of this wrinkly little thing wrapped in pink and carried in a basket.

It wasn't long after we met that I realized I needed to take drastic action if I was going to get any attention at all from my smitten parents.

I discovered that it took a lot of time and effort for my parents to get Hailey to sleep. I would wait until they had finally managed to get her to sleep in her basket and then begin the long prowl towards her. I imagined that if I went very, very slowly, my parents would be unaware that I was moving at all. They were, however, not so easily fooled.

Apparently I would do this over and over and over again.

Sometimes I Am An Stupid

2011-02-09T14:58:00.000-07:00

I've crafted an image for myself throughout my life, born out of some chronic confidence deficiency or a pathological need to be liked. It is one of polish and refinement and sophistication. Sometimes I manage to trick people that I am actually polished, refined and sophisticated. Other times I'm not so convincing, and the witnesses get suspicious.

Then sometimes I do things that make it apparent that I am really a total idiot.

Arguing Under False Pretense
As a rule I try to avoid arguments and confrontations. I like to think that by doing so I create a sense of being calm and collected. There are certain things in life, however, that I cannot help but get passionate about. When they are attacked I cannot help but get defensive and irritated. Sometimes, though, I jump the gun and get offended when no offense was meant, and it all goes downhill from there.

Short-term Shower Memory Loss
This has happened more times than I can remember. Fifteen minutes after I've gotten in the shower, I find myself finally ready to get out, but then I realize that I can't remember if I've shampooed my hair or lathered up with body wash. It's a confusing thing. I know in all probability that I have, but still there's that lingering doubt.

I invariably decide that I need to wash everything again.

Run Into EVERYTHING
Nothing has a greater capacity to make you look like an utter moron than running or walking into an object that hasn't moved since its creation, like a lightpost

or a doorjamb

or a random life-sized replica of a dinosaur in the middle of a mall (I almost wet myself).

If you're around other people, there is no way at all to deny that it happened. They saw it. They are probably laughing at you. The best you can do is try to pick up whatever scraps of dignity you can find and go far away. Forever.

Names, Not Remembering
I have atrocious mental faculties dedicated to the remembering of people's names. And not just new people, but people I've known for years and years. It is likely a genetic defect, as I have also observed it in both of my parents, but especially my mother.

Our names aren't even that similar.

Still, never is my own inability to remember names greater than when I am putting someone's contact information into my phone.

Answering Rhetorical Questions

I don't really understand that sometimes when people ask me a question they really don't want an answer. Maybe they're just venting. Maybe they already know the answer. Or maybe they already know I'm an idiot.

Scott

2011-02-08T19:23:00.000-07:00

Last night I was at my friends' apartment. I had brought along a loaf of freshly-baked artisan bread, some delicious Denmark's Finest imported creamy havarti cheese, and a big bag of Starburst fruit chews.

My shopping process was something like this:

The treats were well-received by my very amiable hosts. One of them drew "I <3 Dane" on my bicep with a ballpoint pen. I felt so hardcore.

Then one of the girls began to panic.

"Who's coming?" we asked

"A guy from my class! I don't even know him! He knows where I live!"

Enter Scott: the exact sort of oblivious, self-centered and uncouth boor that I love to not associate with.

He was a very quotable person, with loads of personal anecdotes, racist jokes and defensive statements about his fashion. Also, he was on YouTube.

So we watched them. For thirty minutes.

My favorite Scott-isms of the evening:

"It's not that I'm no good at relationships, it's just that mine always turn out really bad."

"The king dude in the Lord of the Rings had a really patchy beard. I bet I could grow a really sweet beard if I started shaving."

"I think that I'm a really deep person for 23."

"I live at home still, but whatever."

"I love being racist."

"I also love rape."

A few of those may not exactly be direct quotes, but that is how I remember them anyways.

Then there was always this:

It wasn't long after becoming aware that Scott existed that I realized the strange feeling down in the pit of my stomach was known as 'hate'.

So while I sat on the other couch I used a laptop belonging to one of my hosts and made this short but very very satisfying comic to commemorate the occasion:

SCOTT: A BAD IDEA

Big Brother

2011-02-08T19:22:00.001-07:00

For the first 12 years of my life, I shared a room with my big brother, Chase. Like it is with most little brothers, everything my big brother did was amazing and wonderful to me. I wanted to be like him in every way, and therefore I followed him everywhere.

This was a difficult thing for many reasons. For one, he was three years older than me, which meant that he was that much bigger, stronger and faster. Things that were easy for him didn't always pan out the same way for me.

Even more than being bigger than me, Chase was also three years smarter than me. And not just smart, but naturally cunning. Moreover, he was absolutely aware that I worshiped the ground he walked on. He was able to use this knowledge to his advantage on a daily basis.

Still, there was a limit to the torture I was willing to go through, and as I grew older and my hormones became more and more imbalanced, I began to develop a bit of a temper. On one occasion, shortly before my big brother moved into a separate room, he did something to set me off. It probably had something to do with Legos.

I am a fairly gentle soul. I get squeamish stepping on bugs with big boots, even if it's a spider (I really hate spiders). That being said, this was the last straw, and it caused something deep inside my brain to snap. There I was, huddled in grief, in utter shock at what had just happened, and then suddenly I flew into a homicidal, psychotic rage.

My big brother was caught entirely off guard. He had never seen me like this before. I was completely out of control. I launched myself at him. He fled the scene, running down the hall and slamming a door shut behind him and locking it.

As you might guess, this was but a small nuisance to me. I had degenerated into some sort of insane beast. I didn't even try the doorknob (perhaps I had lost the capacity to utilize my opposable thumbs) - I was that far gone. I just threw myself at the door, impacting with it with a magnificent crash.

And knocking it off its hinges.

It was a game-changer. At that moment all hostility between us vanished, and without a word being spoken between us we knew that the future would be full of suck if we didn't conspire to hide this disaster forever, and that would only happen if we worked together. Luckily our mom was taking a shower (she played tennis a few times a week) and hadn't heard the huge noise of the forceful separation of the door from its frame.

The screws and screwplates had been mangled in the event, so we knew we had to be creative in re-securing it with the wall. Chase got the brilliant idea of getting some wood glue from the craft supplies in the den and gluing it back.

We did so.

We nonchalantly returned to our room. Thirty minutes later we heard our mom screaming at our little sister for breaking the door.

Mission accomplished.

Daydreams

2011-02-07T01:01:00.001-07:00

I'm guilty of daydreaming. A lot. Even more than I dream at night, and I have many dreams every night (of varying content and complexity).

Sometimes, when I get really consumed by my daydreams, I start to behave as if they are actually plausible. For example, I'll work up a scenario in my head where I confess my true feelings for a crush, she reciprocates with her own hidden emotions and dreams, and then we ride off on a motorcycle that was willed to me by Bill Gates (along with 50% of his Microsoft shares).

It looks something like this:

With this image in my head, I decide to act on the dream. I prepare myself for the coming romance by dressing in my most fashionable attire, shaving any possibly-accumulated scruff from my face, and perhaps a small spray of my favorite cologne.

Thus properly dandified, I set out to call upon the object of my affection. Along the way, I run the coming bliss over and over in my head in an endless loop, finding myself absolutely giddy at the prospect of finding such happiness.

Then something peculiar happens. About ten feet from my crush's front door, an alternate ending somehow makes its way onto the projector screen of my imagination, and it goes something like this:

Or

By the time I actually reach the door, my confidence has completely evaporated. I no longer hold even the tiniest sliver of hope that it might all turn out alright, yet I am stuck in an autopilot that continues to move me helplessly towards the inevitable fiasco of creepiness.

Before I even know what I'm doing, it's too late to stop myself, and I've knocked on the door. It opens, and there she is.

It is at this point that my mind is literally screaming at me, "SAY SOMETHING!!! ANYTHING!!!" My eyes flit rapidly about, looking for some sort of clue that I can use to extricate myself from the awkward, uncomfortable silence. By now I am willing to carry out any plan other than the one I originally pursued, no matter how ridiculous. And then, right when I figured the earth was about to swallow me up, it comes to me. The perfect thing to say. The way out.