Like a week ago jasonlatour tagged me for a stupid meme. Six facts about myself, you say? You best hold on to something!
TATSACHE DIE ERSTE: If you read this journal on a regular basis or have, you know, ever met me in person, you know that I have what I might call idiosyncracies, or what you might call issues, or what a therapist might call crippling neuroses. Clearly I wouldn't be posting on LiveJournal otherwise. These personal tics are one of the reasons it's been a while since I've actually updated this thing. In the past few years my overwhelming self-consciousness has blossomed into full-bloom paranoia, and the internet is no place for a paranoiac to hang out. For years I labored under the mistaken impression that the only people who read this thing were part of a small circle of friends. I, of course, understood that anyone at any time could randomly hop on here and start reading--I just assumed they didn't because they had no interest in doing so. But apparently they do. People anonymously hop on here and read me saying things, misinterpret them, and then talk about me behind my back. Good times, internet. Normally I would chalk this up to paranoid delusions, like I have about people staring at me through the gap in my blinds, but I actually have documented proof of this happening at this point, and it feels...not that great, you know? It's like I'm telling an inside joke in a public place--sure, you could walk up at any time to listen, but it's not going to make me feel comfortable that you understand the context. So I'd considered stopping the journal, making it friends only, stopping having opinions, whatever. I haven't decided what I'll do yet. I like the idea that anyone can come and friend me and read what I have to say, but I really only want people to do it on my terms, you know? It's no good. Anyway. Issues. OkCupid tells me I have a low sense of self worth. Along with this comes a devastating fear of rejection. What fuels this, you may ask? Well, here's an example, along with the actual fact of this section: The other day I got a letter in the mail letting me know in no uncertain terms that I was completely rejected for a credit card that I didn't even apply for. Sigh.
FACT THE SECOND: Sharp-minded readers may have figured out that it was actually my birthday a week and some change ago. I don't normally make a big deal of my birthday, because it's seldom been a big deal. I was torn between the part of me that didn't want to be that clownshoes shouting "LOOKATMEONMYBIRFDAY" and that totally hates those people, and the part of me that was like, "I'd kind of like one or two people to tell me happy birthday; I should probably let someone know that I was born on this day." My compromise was letting everyone know that it was Lovecraft's birthday. He and I have the same birthday. Maybe no one would have figured this out from that oblique clue, but MySpace ruined everything, as usual. Thanks, MySpace. And yeah, I don't normally advertise my age either, but hey, here I am, five and twenty years old. So a quarter century. TS Eliot wrote "The Wasteland" when he was 22. I wrote about robot Hitler. Orson Welles directed Citizen Kane at 24. I wrote about razor snot and robots eating Thai food. I feel accomplished by comparison. Or to bring it to a more personal level, all reports indicate that my dad was 25 when I was born. So, it's like...yeah, look at where I am compared to that. It's sad to think about as I sit here eating peanuts and hoping my neighbor throws out some doughnut scraps. That said...
QUOD IN ORDINE TERTIUM RECORDETUR: I live in a neighborhood much nicer than I deserve. I got really lucky when I moved. I found a great place really cheap in a great area of town. It's easily twice as big as my old place, so it doesn't look cluttered in the slightest. I almost feel like I could invite company over if anyone I knew still lived in this town. The only advantage the old place had over this one was the bathroom. Not that it was necessarily bigger (though it might have been), but it was definitely laid out better. The main problem is that the toilet sits perpendicular to the bathtub with very little room in between. Again, if you've met me, you know I'm not a short person. My shins rub against the edge of the bathtub when I sit on the toilet. This is no good. What's worse, there's so little room, it's impossible for the stand-up/sit-down and the pull pants up/down combo to be performed as one swift, smooth action. They are, by necessity of space, two discrete actions. This embarrasses me, as I think people are looking at me through the gap in my blinds.
FACT: THERE'S NO SUCH WORD AS QUADRILOGY: Much like my good pal I've never met Ben Roman, I love Halloween. This, much to my mom's chagrin. I'm sure if it were up to my mom, I would only be vaguely aware that something called Halloween existed. As a child, I was taken away from the normal secular humanist/Satanic rituals of eating candy and the entrails of Christians while dressed as the whoresome consorts of Azazel, majordomo of Pandaimoneon, and instead taken to "fall festivals" where we recited Bible verses in exchange for razor-free marshmallows from the trunk of someone's car. Or something. So at this point, I imagine my mom is mildly mortified that I write ghost stories for money [note: I don't actually get paid to write ghost stories]. I know this must be true, because one year for Halloween...well... So, around age nine or so, I decided to let my creative streak take over in terms of H'ween costumes. That year I was really in the middle of my "ripping off Calvin and Hobbes" phase, so I would draw comic strips featuring Ferocious Man, a total swipe of Stupendous Man, and ostensibly my earliest superhero creation. I decided to be Ferocious Man for Hallo--er, the fall festival. So I tried to describe the costume to my mom: cape, hood. Not hard. Basically just what Stupendous Man wore, but purple, my favorite color at the time. My mom, I think, either misunderstood what I meant by hood, or just couldn't quite figure it out, because the hood basically ended up being a rectangular pillow case with eye holes in it. I looked like an executioner of some kind with it on. But with big horn rimmed glasses on under the hood. The cape was fine...you know, just a cape. The color wasn't exactly purple, though. It was more like a deep gray. So, I dunno. Imagine this. At the festival, I eventually got tired of telling people, "I'm a character I created and blah blah blah," so my smart young self decided to start telling people that I was Samhain, lord of darkness. For the record, I heard about Samhain, of all places, from my comic adaptation of the Garfield Halloween special. Anyway, apparently this story spread around until someone told my mom. This obviously did not sit well with her. As punishment, she put razors in all my candy. But even after all this, I could not be dissuaded from my love of Halloween. Don't get me wrong, I also love Christmas and all. I just think H'ween should expand a little bit. So I say if we can start celebrating Christmas the day after Thanksgiving, we can celebrate H'ween starting on September first. So I've started. Mostly by watching horror movies and playing Marshie's Malloween Mix-Up a lot. So...join me in the festivities, will you? Happy Halloween! Only 56 shopping days left!
FIVE THINGS I HATE ABOUT ME: I just finished a script I'd had sitting in a drawer for a year. If things go well, the book will be out next year. So...yeah. Anyway, here's another thing:
SECHS SEX HEX: I just added a Last.fm thing to my user profile here. That way you can be disgusted at the fact that I listen to the same things over and over again and only get new music once or twice a year. I'm self-conscious about my taste in music, so I'm not sure why I did that, but hey, there you go. It's easier than remembering to fill in the "currently listening" box and updates more frequently, I guess. Also, it helps perhaps draw attention to the fact that I'm still accepting donations. Doesn't hurt, I guess.
Anyway, there's six random facts about me. I won't tag anyone, because shut up.