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Thursday, August 20, 2015

Because Confessions are Good for the Soul

A while back, I asked some awesome fellow bloggers to critique my blog, and asked for any suggestions as to why I get plenty of traffic but rarely any comments.  "It just kind of seems like you don't need anything from the reader," one person said.

This got me thinking.  It made sense.  Even in the real world, I'm the answer person.  I come off a lot of times as arrogant and self-righteous, even though the reality is that I'm actually just socially retarded.

There's the first confession.  I dislike small talk - not because I find it pointless, or because I feel like I'm too smart to engage in it - but because I simply can't form a whole conversation around the weather or sports or whatever it is that normal people chit-chat about.  I also have a tendency to ramble. I do that here, too, but the beauty of written word is that you have the chance to go back and edit things before anyone actually has to endure it.  In real life, whatever falls out of my mouth is just out there, and then I can either just stand there with a dumb expression on my face, or I can try to dig myself back out of the awkward by cracking a joke.

  M-O-O-N, that spells - crap, wrong reference...



Second confession:  I'm a total nerd.  Not like, the cool nerds, as in, "she's into video games and Doctor Who, bro," but more like I knew why it was important to always carry a towel and why 42 was the answer to everything LONG before most.  I randomly quote Heinlein and Card and NO ONE knows what the hell I'm talking about, but I giggle to myself anyway because that shit is funny.  I blurt out song lyrics and quote movies that I am apparently the only person on the planet that has seen.  I make lame psychology jokes (a Freudian slip is where you say one thing and mean your mother.  Ba-dum-chhh) and once got deer-in-the-headlights-looks from an entire room of people because I took 15 minutes to set up a joke about an accidentally time-lapsed video being ADHD TV.

You know how you think you got a great deal because you found a Barbie at the Dollar Store, but you open the package and it turns out you really bought a Blarbey, with bad hair plugs, crudely sewn-together paper clothes, immovable joints, and a wonky eye that's somehow been painted on her forehead instead?  You, my friend, just acquired a SanjoTiba ADHD Television.  Ba-dum-...chhhh? 


I can't dance.  This is problematic because I have a niece who's been dancing and choreographing like a pro since toddler-hood, and my best friend dances like she just stepped out of a Beyonce video.  It's a running joke that I can't dance, but my friend insists on dragging me onto the dance floor any time one is available - and so there I am, sweating bullets because *hello social anxiety,* standing alongside Shakira and doing my best rendition of drunk dad at a barbecue.  

"The Carlton" is even a bit too kind.


I sing randomly.  Not just like, I have a song in my head and I'm going to sing it - more like, acapella play-by-plays of what I'm doing at the moment.  I can't... I can't even articulate how insane this is.  Think Marshall on How I Met Your Mother.  Yes, seriously.  On the plus side, my kids think it's hilarious.

And why wouldn't you sing to the dishes as you loaded them in the washer?


I get really uncomfortable when someone is upset, unless it's a kid.  Kids are easy - you can just hug them and coo at them and they're good.  Adults, not so much.  I've worked my way to a pat on the back or an awkward half-hug if I know them well, but I always have this weird feeling that if I touch them wrong or say the wrong thing, they're going to freak out and tell me to piss off.  I don't know why.  I want to make them feel better, but anxiety has this awesome side effect where your brain goes into frantic squirrel mode and your only options are to retreat or say something really, really stupid.

I like grapes.


I also can't flirt.  Or take a compliment.  I'm always in awe of charismatic people who always seem to know what to say and how to say it, because I am that chick that's totally attractive until I'm trying to be charming and something dumb pops out.  I can usually play it off - and, you  know, boobs - but my brain likes to play said stupid thing over and over in my head on a loop until I feel so stupid that I want to hide out in my house for a couple weeks until the sting wears off and I forget what the actual conversation was about in the first place.

I like grapes.  I like grapes?  I like grapes??  I LIKE GRAPES??  YOU MORON, THE CORRECT ANSWER WAS OBVIOUSLY POTATO!  42!


That, dear readers, is not even the tip of the iceberg.

So the truth is, it may seem like I have my shit together when I post things on the Internet (or that I'm totally insane, either or), but it's super easy to hide behind a keyboard and only put the things out there that you want people to see.   In real life, I'm a total mess.





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