Uh...Taylor Swift

(Note: In order to restore my waning masculinity we'll be discussing the relative merits/attractiveness of various Disney leading ladies in an obnoxious manner)

7:16 A.M. Wake up and glance at my alarm clock. Heave a sigh of relief. I've still got one whole minute to sleep. (Sleep)

7:17 A.M. (Alarm goes off) What? That was a minute, it only felt like thirty seconds? What a bunch of crap. Proceed to lie in bed for three minutes staring at the ceiling.

7:20-7:50 A.M. Perform morning ablutions, showering, eating cereal et al. Wonder if I should put jell in my hair. Wonder if my hair is too long? Is it too short? Stop wondering.

Interpolation:

Girl: You should go to this play it's really amazing.

M: Yeah, I heard about it on NPR

Girl: Are you under thirty five?

M: (A little part of me dies).

8:00 A.M.-11:20 A.M. Proceed to process interlibrary loans in a timely fashion.

11:20-1 P.M. Play basketball poorly. Proceed to kick the ball against the wall and exceed my curing limit for the month in about a two minute time span. Briefly consider how much has changed since I was a kid playing basketball. Hell, I used to enjoy it. Now, I don't enjoy it when I lose, but I don't always try my hardest to win. Perhaps to give myself that excuse. The same could be said for writing. I'd be good if I just spent more time.

Interpolation because of late I kind of dig Chesterton:

"I believe what really happens in history is this: the old man is always wrong; and the young people are always wrong about what is wrong with him. The practical form it takes is this: that, while the old man may stand by some stupid custom, the young man always attacks it with some theory that turns out to be equally stupid."

1 P.M. Go back to work feeling like the incredible Hulk. Desperately wanting to break something. I work in a library. No such luck.

4:30 P.M. Get off work and go out to read in the sun. Proceed to read without sunglasses despite the glare. Consider retrieving sunglasses, but decide against it on the grounds that it would be inconvenient. Make my body do numerous contortions in order to read effectively. Fail.

Because facebook is a funny thing.

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Okay, I left out on critical element in my day. Months ago I didn't even know whether Taylor Swift was a guy or a girl and then I heard a song by her on Dancing With the Stars. And yes, I realize that watching DWTS and listening to Taylor Swift are not earning my any masculinity points. I just love a good Argentine tango. Anyhow, as it turns out she sang a song that doesn't suck and that is remarkably catchy. Thus, I walk around with said song going through my head throughout the day of late. And eventually I just cave in and start listening to this song. But I do so filled with shame, and I turn the volume kind of low, this even though I'm using headphones, and I try and make sure that the tab only says YouTube and that the Taylor Swift part isn't even visible. And then I just indulge, and it is so sweet.

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Obviously I'm lying I would never listen to this where other people might notice. I mean, I lift weights and play sports and stuff. Oh well, I've already lost you all. Strangely I'm quite a snob when it comes to literature and consider most peoples tastes to be about as evolved as that of a high functioning chimpanzee, and I know that those sort of music snobs exist as well. Though honestly the only kind of music snobs I respect are the ones who listen to classical. I'm just not that into this garage band you heard one time when you were on a bender in Seattle. But I'm certain that those same snobs hate this music like I hate crappy novels. But honestly, look at how pristine Taylor looks and feel bad for disliking her.

Oh well, so besides that I'm kicking it watching episodes of Glee and getting all psyched about people pretending to be in their teens singing to one another. At least I grew up as a fan of 90210 and Melrose Place, so I get the love of people pretending to be sixteen when they're twenty five, but singing? Come on Andrew. Thankfully this catchy song turned out to be by some punkish type band All American Rejects, so I can listen to it without incurring much internal wrath. Unless someone hears me listening to it and asks if I'm listening to it because of Glee in which case I'll be forced to lie.

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I'm also a fiction writer.

Fiction (Cont.)

It occurred to me as my two friends were being roundly beaten in the living room that my shoe had not given way. The ground was slick, but my shoe’s grip had been uncompromised. All those recriminations I’d made against that poor company through the years were a misguided attempt by my mind to hide my own cowardice. I had taken enough gymnastic classes in my youth, to assist me in making a fairly painless roll down the hill that day. And after, when the ambulance pulled up, I must have created this new scenario, which displaced the reality. Clearly, my cheap shoe had slipped rendering me helpless.

After this realization the horror of Katie’s face came back to me with a vengeance. Of course, I now understood that the left side of her face had remained entirely normal following the accident and that I had created the judgment as a defense mechanism. This did nothing to curb my growing insecurity. In fact, realizing how unstable I was made it nearly impossible to work with any of my female colleagues, whose faces now bore that same mark of judgment. The mere sight of elderly secretaries with thick glasses sent me scurrying back into my office.

I spent an hour hiding underneath my desk when I saw my secretary approaching with a message. And the woman just had to sit there, having clearly seen me duck beneath my desk, and I had to remain there for a solid hour, until I could come out and report that I had concluded my lunch break. The whole thing was really an awkward mess for the both of us. I put in for a week’s vacation that afternoon and that’s pretty much why I’m sitting here with you.

No, wait. Hold on. I stil have a minute. I want to tell you the whole thing before you answer me. I haven’t been entirely truthful with you. The trigger wasn’t any of the valences that I’ve suggested in the retelling, the vomit, or the girl, or the shoes, or the plants on the balcony, all the sorts of details that are potentially relevant or fabricated. No. It was a feeling. The visceral feeling of contentment, of being warm and safe as her screams reached me from what seemed like miles away—relief. My god, I experienced a flood of relief so incredibly strong and full that I can only associate it with feelings of religious fervor that I had during my pre-Atheist days as a youth. And it was this same overwhelming, dare I say religious, feeling of relief that overcame me when I held Jerry’s bicuspid up to the blue television light.

I came to see what this whole project of living has been about—that the old Austrian bastard the Skipper was right—self-preservation. I’m no better than one of those fish eating vomit.

Unless, unless, I’ve created this whole elaborate scenario to account for my profound unhappiness in a life that I’ve freely chosen. I hope that explains why I’ve directed this whole thing to one side of your face. Why I’ve been moving around you a bit to stay in a perfect site line with that good eye. Why I’ve asked you to stay turned away. It’s why the two of us are going to conclude this meeting, and I’m going to go out and buy you a nice new pair of shoes.

But now I want you to turn and tell me something, something true. You’re a professional. I trust you. Am I making this up? I’m sure men have told you worse things. Haven’t they?



Question: Is the narrator speaking to a prostitute or a psychologist?