Anxious Asshole Syndrome (AAS)

I get the feeling that most people think that I am an asshole. I’m not an asshole, though. I’m just shy. And terrified of fucking up and of putting people out and of owing people things and of being noticed and of having to perform due to said notice. I live my life running from the spotlight, only going to places that the light can’t reach so that then I can be sure. I can breathe easily.

I may come off as an asshole if I pass you in the hallway and I don’t say “Hi,” but this is because I am scared of you and I don’t want to bother you. I know that it is a stretch and a bit absurd to think that saying “Hi” is bothersome but my mind is so stretchy that of course it is. Of course you were lost in thought or thinking about something very important or just trying to get home (at 10am?) and my “Hi” was the last straw. And now you are going to report said “Hi” to human resources and I will lose this job which I need not only for the money involved but also because it is how I define myself because I have yet to figure out any other ways I might go about achieving self definition. And now everyone is disappointed in me and my life is done and I’ll never amount to anything.

Not that I ever actually expected to amount to anything because like I said I don’t think highly of myself at all because like I said I am not an asshole.

I think a lot about David Foster Wallace’s commencement address entitled “This Is Water.” He opens it with two fish swimming along and they are passed by an older fish who says “Morning, boys. How’s the water?” And the two fish keep swimming until one turns to the other one and says “What the hell is water?” I know that DFW meant this as an example of how life can just pass us by if wed don’t take time to pay attention to the little things around us. But I see it another way. My anxiety, in all it’s terrified glory, is the water. I have grown so accustomed to it that I don’t notice it. It’s been with me for as long as I can remember and it shapes my every action from behind the scenes so that I know that I will have more fun if I make plans on the weekends but I still don’t make plans on the weekend. I know that I will have more fun if I stay at the party but I still make up an excuse to leave.

“I’m sorry. I have to go. I need to go water my plants.” (My plants are dead.)

One more story: I had a friend sleep on my couch for a month. It doesn’t matter why. What does matter was that when he was around my girlfriend he was a dick. This was all a joke, he said, and he was pretty sure she understood, but at a certain point I had to stop him and tell him that if you pretend to be a dick long enough, you just kind of are one. Not pretending.

I’m not a dick, but I am an asshole - just mostly to myself.

Larry Is Dead

Let’s be honest - no tears were shed when Larry McMillan died because Larry McMillan was an asshole and assholes do not get the luxury of having people feel sad about losing them. Good, hard working people are mourned. Children are mourned. Not assholes. Assholes go into the ground and nobody thinks twice about it because nobody really thought about them to begin with. I’m pretty certain that nobody is going to go to his funeral. He might not even have a funeral. If a funeral happens and nobody cares, was Larry really ever alive to begin with?

The answer, unfortunately for everyone he met, is a very resounding “yes.” Larry McMillan made most of the lives he touched ever so much more miserable by his presence. Chelsea Went, who fucking likes everyone, and I mean everyone, once told Mindy Dean that she thought that Larry was “weird and [smelled] kind of bad.” There is strong evidence that his parents didn’t even like him all that much as they were ever so eager to bring up his brother Charles at dinner parties and back-to-school nights, and barely mentioned Larry at all. Even Stan Greenfield didn’t care for him, and Stan Greenfield was supposed to be his best friend.

I’m not going to feel sorry for Larry. I’m not going to cry because of what happened. I care that he is gone, but I care because I think that the world is now a better place for it. Because now we no longer have to live with his presence. We can all now breathe a collective sigh of relief.

It is concerning, therefore, that people are now starting to think that Larry was a good person. You might stop being an asshole when you die but that’s only because you’ve stopped existing. Larry sucked through and through up until his last breath and everyone knows it. Or at least they knew it until a few days ago. Now everyone wants to talk about what a great fucking guy he was. It’s all bullshit because people should be remembered for who they were and not for who we, collectively, hoped they might become. And we all hoped that Larry might one day be, I dunno, hit over the head or something, and magically become a new and kind and decent person. But that never happened. He started out life as a garbage person and remained a garbage person until late last Saturday night. It was either late Saturday night or early Sunday morning. Apparently when a person bleeds out it can be hard to tell just exactly when they died.

I’m not going to feel sorry for you, Larry McMillan. Others might. Not me.

You’re dead. And I’m alive. And I’m happy.

Garbage Disposal

I like to watch arguments that happen in line at CVS.

I’m thinking about buying a garbage disposal. The building that I live in does not allow garbage disposals because garbage disposals use to much wattage. Or maybe voltage. I can never remember the difference between the two. I think I’m going to buy a garbage disposal though, because Home Depot has discounted ones they are trying to get rid of before the new models come in. I’ll keep my garbage disposal at my friend Mark’s apartment because Mark’s apartment allows garbage disposals and Mark won’t do anything stupid because Mark is a smart man. Also he once lost a finger in a garbage disposal in Lawton, Oklahoma. “Once you lose one finger in a garbage disposal, you won’t lose another one.” Mark told me that. I think I believe him. But I also think he really wants me to buy him a garbage disposal.

I sometimes worry that I don’t have the kind of friends that would visit me in the hospital or drive me to the airport. This is silly to worry about because there’s no way of knowing until it’s too late. I’ve never flown or been sick enough to go to the hospital, so I haven’t found out yet. But that doesn’t stop me from worrying about it.

I worry a lot. I worry that eating food makes me less creative, and so I don’t eat. And then I get angry. And then I begin to drink. And then I am hung over. And being hung over reminds you what death must be like if you were to try to die but not actually die. So maybe I shouldn’t try to be creative. I sometimes think about getting an office job. Not just getting an office job, but being excited about having an office job.

I like to go out to Coney Island and watch people try to have fun.